The Diaries of Scorpius Malfoy
by HP.que.nette
Summary: Diary? Excuse me, but I'm a Malfoy. Malfoys don't write diaries. Merlin, no. We write man-journals. .:RoseScorpius multi-chap:.
1. Sunday, August 31

A/N: So here's a multi-chap RoseScorp fic for y'all. Enjoy!

And yes, he _is_ supposed to sound like the world's biggest jerk.

* * *

Dear Diary,

_Diary_? Excuse me, but I'm a Malfoy. Malfoys don't write _diaries_. Merlin, no. We write _man-journals_. Yes, yes, as excited as you may be, don't get your knickers in a twist. This man-journal is extremely confidential. That means, in peon's terms, no screaming Scorpius-fangirl is getting her hands on this.

Now, to begin this properly.

I am Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy: Slytherin legacy, brilliant student, and most importantly, teen hottie of Hogwarts. Girls want me. Guys want to _be_ me. The fact that I acknowledge this openly leads people to think I'm hotheaded. Egotistic. Thickskulled. And I one-hundred-percent agree.

But it's not like I have nothing to be proud of. I am gorgeous. Do you _know_ how much Lysander, my mother's hair charmer, offered for my head of ice-blond hair? Do you want to venture a guess? Now take your little guess and add 400 galleons to it. _That's_ how much he offered.

In addition to my swoon-worthy good-looks, I am incredibly smart. Head Boy? I got the letter in the mail _months_ ago. I feel sorry for whoever got named Head Girl this year. She's going to have a hard time measuring up to me. Or rather, she's going to have a hard time _attempting_ to measure up to me. And inevitably, there will be a smartass in this imaginary audience saying 'So what'? Gorgeous and smart are the typical Slytherin male package, no? My answer: duh. But how many gorgeous, smart Slytherins do you know with a famous father?

That's right, plebians. My father is _the _Draco Malfoy. The infinetely rich business tycoon, sole creator of _Warlock Wives_. I don't even know you very well, hypothetical readers, but I can pretty much _hear _green jealousy oozing out of your pores. And the answer your inevitable question is yes, it _does_ rule to be me.

So you think you have me sketched out pretty well in your heads. If that's the case, then you must know that every insanely hunky hero needs a strange, scrawny little arch-foe to compete against in every possible thing that we can compete in. Unfortunately, _this_ hunky hero is really lacking in the nemesis department. Because, you see, instead of a scrawny, misunderstood weakling competing agianst me, I get Albus.

No, not Albus Dumbledore. I'm talking here about Albus Severus Potter. Although cursed with what might be classified as the most unfortunate name in history, he was blessed with almost as much charisma, intelligence and beauty as me.

_Almost_.

He's got the good looks; his list of ex-girlfriends is only one or two away from tieing with mine. He's got the brains. Twelve owls. Twelve outstandings. But who's Head Boy? That would be me. Who's not? That's right. i think we can leave that question unanswered. But there's one more thing here, and it really does pain me to admit- his father is famous, too. Maybe even more famous than mine. Now here you are thinking, "No one in the _world_ is more famous that Draco Malfoy,". And while I appreciate your flattery, I have to disagree.

Ever heard of Harry Potter?

Of course you have. Every poor creature on earth knows who Harry Potter is. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The Defeator. Etc, etc, ad nauseum... He was _born_ famous. And it really does take a special type of amazing to be _born_ famous.

And who happened to be dear Harry's son other than Albus? So as fellow sons of legacies you'd expect us to be friends, right?

If you do, you're a moron completely oblivious to basic rhetorical strategies. Wow. I must be losing it. I'm insulting a reader that doesn't even exist.

But like I was saying, Albus and I compete in every last event, subject, area. We even try to get _teachers_ to love us more. But I must say, no female teacher can resist a blond. Especially one as aristocratically handsome as me.

I've really done my father proud by hating the Potters.

Oh yes, I forgot to mention. _Potters _is plural. There are _more_. Albus honestly has more relatives than my mother has jewels. And need I remind you, we're _rich_.

The list is practically endless. Teddy Lupin. Victoire Weasley. James Potter. Lily Potter. Hugo Weasley. Dominique Weasley. Molly Weasley. Fred Weasley. Louis Weasley. Rose Weasley.

_Rose Weasley_. If Albus is a pain in the hindquarters, then Rose is a fucking hemorrhage. She inherited the Granger intelligence _and_ the Wealsey charm. In other words, the only person teachers like more than me, is _her._

I hear mother beckoning me for dinner. I swear, the last day before I leave for my last year at Hogwarts, and my mother goes and throws a _celebration_.

Regards,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

I know this was a short chapter. But he's still at home, so this is just an introduction.

Review if you liked it.

Review if you didn't.

I love ConCrit. Ladle it out.


	2. Monday, September 1 I

A/N: I love you sexy reviewers.

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

Today's events were... eventful, to put it as simply as possible. Today was the first day of my last year at Hogwarts. Of course, _ yesterday_, I had to endure an hour-long lecture about how it was crucial that I choose the right wizarding career now. The speech couretsy of my mother. _Seriously_. The lady would sits at home the entire day looking pretty. I told her that I was planning on pursuing a career in modeling. Just to piss her off, but still.

Have you seen my eight pack?

Needless to say, it worked. She was pissed. She even got off her ass for a few seconds to shout a stream of vulgarities at me and _even_ used the D-word at one point. That's right. _Disown_. As if she would ever.

So I woke ep this morning and apparated to King's Cross Station. Have I mentioned that I've been apparating since the illegal age of sixteen? Yep.

_That's how bad-ass I am._

As I was saying, I got to Platform 9 3/4 and who should I see but Albus, arm around the waist of his newest girlfriend, and surrounded by an army of siblings and cousins. His parents were a few paces away, chatting with a group of scarlett-locked Weasleys. I turned to wave goodbye to my own mother but she was long-gone, eager to get rid of me at the first possible moment. I reckon the only reason she even came to the Station with me was because of that law forcing parents to make sure their children got on the platform before departing. It was sparked by this rumour that someone had placed a Sealing Spell on the pillar too early and a few kids, not being able to get through, flew to school on an enchanted Ford Anglia. Somehow, I doubt that. _No one_ can be that idiotic.

So soon, my mother had been replaced with a gaggle of giggling girls. All of them crooning over how much more gorgeous I got over the summer. As if I didn't know already. I pushed through the group and scanned the crowds until my eyes landed on a pale, scrawny figure with a shock of black hair and abnormally blue eyes.

"Zabini!" I yelled. Phineas Zabini is a pathetically desperate fellow who wants nothing more than to please me. You see, darlingly nonexistant readers, I usually fly solo, but every single thing about Zabini just begged to be my sidekick, and being the generous person I am, I couldn't refuse. And as compensation for all he does for me, sometimes the girls who I flat-out reject go running to him.

See why he doesn't complain?

At the sound of his name, Zabini looked around, saw me, and scurried over, a eager smile painted onto his face. "Hello, Scorpius," he greeted,"How was your summer? I sent you tons of owls, but they must have all gotten lost, because you never sent anything back." See what I mean by desperate? I smiled stiffly, not wanting to break Zabini's bubble of bliss, his unswerving belief that I liked him as much as he liked me.

And then, a sudden thought occured to me. Why wait until we got to school to ignite the Scorpius/Albus rivalry? I casually walked around, until I was within Albus' range of hearing.

"So Zabini, have you heard that I got the Head Boy letter?" I said in a voice all to loud for a private conversation. I tilted my self just so, until I was sure the light bouncing off my Head Boy insignia caught Albus' attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stiffen.

"Really?" he exclaimed. The poor boy thought I was telling him because of our friendship. Honestly, his naivety astounded me sometimes.

"Of course," I replied. "Was there even any competition?" I turned and looked right into Albus' green eyes. And if looks could kill (and by the way, they _are_ working on a spell for that), I would be severly injured. But I'm _much _too beautiful to die on the spot.

"Well, Zabini, I should be off. Head duties are never to be procrastinated. After all, I should be off to meet my new _Head Girl_." As I turned, for a split second, I could have sworn I saw a smirk on Albus' face. But when I looked back, it was gone. I must have been hallucinating.

I climbed onto the Hogwarts Express and made my way down to the prefects' carriage. There weren't any prefects in there yet, but there _was _a strikingly pretty girl, her strawberry-blond hair in a haphazard mess upon her head, sitting there reading a book.

My Head Girl.

"Hey there, sweetie," I said suavely, keeping my voice as seductively low as possible. The girl turned.

She was a Gryffindor I vaguely knew. She was extremely good-looking, though she could have been prettier if it weren't for that sour look on her face.

"Sod off, Malfoy," she sighed. I blinked. No one told me to sod off.

"What, I can't get to know my fellow head?" I shot. It was her turned to give me a confused look.

"Who, me?"

"Yes you." I swear, McGonagall must be getting a bit old if she's been appointing such idiots as Head Girl.

"Couldn't be."

"Then who?" I'm confused. And being the genius that I am, it _does_ take a lot to puzzle me.

"I'm not head girl," she laughed. "I'm _waiting_ for the Head Girl. She said to meet her here." Oh. I see. But if she wasn't Head Girl...

"Then who's Head?" I asked. The girl smiled sweetly and tilted her chin in the direction of the door.

And there Hogwarts' new Head Girl stood. Her flaming red hair flowed down her back, and her horrified expression mimicked my own. She stared at me openly, as if I might morph into someone more tolerable if she just waited. It must have been ages until someone spoke.

"Well if it isn't Rose Weasley," I said. But unfortunately, it was.

Yours,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

I know that you expected that.

Sorry for el cliche.

You guys were so good at reviewing for the first chap that I dare you to do it again. ;)


	3. Monday, September 1 II

Alright, so here's the lost chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

Dear Man- Journal,

All summer long, I've had a vague idea of what the first night of my seventh year would be like. In these elaborate fantasies, McGonagall introduces me at the feast as Head Boy and then announces that since I am so handsome and talented, the school decided to forgo appointing a Head Girl for the year. Instead they would be providing me with a team of well-endowed witches from the pages of Warlock Wives.

Then gold would rain down from the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall and I would fall asleep with several girls, on a bed spun from the hairs of the Minister's own baby unicorns.

Believe it or not, this _isn't_ what happened.

Though, I am writing this in bed… and there _is_ a witch sharing it with me… but we'll get there in time.

* * *

By the time Weasley and I made our way to the Head's dormitory, it was well past midnight. The feast was wonderful and hearty, though I couldn't help but feel let down that I wasn't able to trade the redheaded freak in for that band of buxom brunettes. The newly initiated Slytherins managed not to be too embarrassing (though I can't say the same for the fresh bucket of Hufflepuffs—I mean, it's bad enough to be publically placed in the least noble of Hogwarts' houses, but to then upend an _entire row_ of rhubarb pies on a professor? _Merlin_.)

After briefing some prefects and some other boring nonsense, Weasley and I now stood in front of an enormous portrait of a maiden tending to a flock of cockatrices. Upon our arrival, she turned from her animals and gave us (okay, _me_) a long, lascivious look up and down.

"Can I help you?" she chirped, her gaze still fixed far, far below my neck.

"Er, we're here…for… the Head's dormitories?" said Weasley.

"Password?"

"Er… Damn, I forgot to ask McGonagall for it," she said. She looked down at her chest and pointed to a small, shiny badge. "I have this, though."

"Sorry," sang the maiden with a pleased flourish of her hemp skirt. "I have express orders not to let anyone in unless they have a password."

"But—"

"You know, Weasley. I have the password," I cut in. "But my voice is feeling hoarse today. I'd prefer it if you said it." Weasley rolled her eyes, impatient.

"Well, what is it, then?"

"Just tell this lovely maiden that _Scorpius Malfoy is a sex god._"

"I—what?!" Weasley sputtered.

"Scorpius is a sex god," I repeated patiently. I honestly haven't a clue how a girl as dense as Weasley shares my power here at this school.

"You are so full of yourself. The sight of you triggers my gag reflex. Tell me the password."

"I just did."

"You're insuf—"

"We could be inside already, if you weren't being so difficult."

"If that's the password, then why hasn't she opened up already?"

"She's waiting for you to say it. She knows I'm real but _you_ could very well be an imposter. Just say it!"

"I will do no such—"

"Say it!"

"Stop being an asshole and tell me what the fucking password is!"

"_Just say it_."

"Fine, to appease your ego. Merline. Next, you tell her how fit my body is." Weasley coughed and looked down. "Scorpius is a sex god. See, nothing—"

Weasley was interrupted mid-sentence as the maiden threw me a sultry wink. "Yes he is," she purred before swinging open to reveal a large, arched entrance. Weasley's jaw literally dropped.

I casually brushed by Weasley and took in my new abode. So maybe I had forgotten to mention that McGonagall had come by while Weasley was with those atrocious Gryffindors, to ask my if we had agreed yet on a password. _Oops_.

Now, to be fair, I'm quite accustomed to luxury. Malfoy Manor is a gilded, sparkling piece of real estate just north of Wiltshire. We have house elves at our beck and call, enchanted rose gardens, and mirrors that always tell me how pretty I am. But the dormitory I had walked into still somehow managed to leave me momentarily breathless.

Along one side stretched a rose-colored fireplace, its width equivalent to that of at least two hippogriffs, wingtip-to-wingtip. A small flame crackled within, bathing the room in a warm glow. Candles hung levitated above us in an intricate candelabrum and fat leather armchairs crowded around a large oak table. Bookcases lined the entirety of the room, boasting thick, dusty spines. The windows were encased in a wooden pane that bore neat engravings—upon closer inspection, the engravings were the names of every Head Boy and Girl of Hogwarts, ever, from J. Merophilius to R. Weasley.

What Malfoy Manor had in sparkle and pizzazz, our dormitory equaled in warmth and peace. I would never admit it to another human, but Hogwarts is more a home to me than Malfoy Manor could ever hope to me.

"Wow," breathed Weasley behind me. At that moment, I snapped out of my trance. I refused to be mesmerized bysomething that I had to share with someone as pedestrian as Weasley.

"I don't even think these mirrors tell me I'm pretty," I commented nonchalantly. Weasley turned to face me, annoyed.

"Why are you so preoccupied with you looks, Malfoy? You do realize that beauty is only skin deep?" I snorted.

"I don't know why you Gryffindors keep telling me this. What more could I possibly want, a beautiful pancreas?"

Weasley rolled her eyes.

"Well, I suppose I shouldn't be so quick to judge. With your stumpy features and frizz that resembles a troll's pubic hair, the only thing you have left to hope for a beautiful pancreas, isn't it?"

Weasley grew red, and despite herself, her hand flew to her curls. "At least I'm not a pampered pretty boy without any prospects of a future outside of nepotism with his father's company."

Something prickled within me, but I brushed it off. "You're right; you _aren't_ pretty."

Weasley grunted and a few moments later, she stomped off to one of the staircases on the far side of the room. "I'm going to bed," she snapped, and moments later she stormed up the stairs and into a door emblazoned with the Gryffindor flag. I sighed and figured it was time for bed myself.

I made my way to the green-and-silver staircase and made my way up.

Or, at least, I started to. Three seconds after hiking up, I found myself at the bottom again, facing a shiny wooden ramp. The slide bubbled for a second before reverting to steps. But when I tried again, the stairs melted and I ended up back on the bottom.

I pointed my wand tentatively at the stairs. "_Gradio_? _Passus vestigium_?" Nothing.

I ran my hand through my hair. I've read _Hogwarts, A History_ enough times to know why this happens. In the four house dormitories, this charm is placed on all the staircases leading to female bedrooms. Historically, this was because Merlin was rumored to be a bit of a perv with the fifteen-year-old witches and _something_ had to be done.

Regardless, the prefects' and Heads' dormitories were built much later and weren't supposed to have this charm at all. And even more regardless, I'm a man! Trying to get into _my_ manly dorm! Testosterone! Chest hair! Prostate gland! _Manly_!

I stood gaping at the stairs for a good five minutes before swallowing a teensy bit of my pride. I cleared my throat.

"Er. Weasley?"

No response.

"Weasley!"

No response.

"WEASLEY!"

Moments later, Weasley appeared at the head of her staircase, looking less than pleased.

"Miss me already, sweetheart?" she snapped, her voice dripping so thickly with tart cynicism that I could have bottled and sold the excess.

"I have a problem, Weasley," I said as nicely as I could.

"Is this epiphany what you called me here for? As glad as I am that you've reached self-actualization, I need to go to bed—"

"No I mean, I have a _problem_. I can't get up my stairs."

"Physiologically? What, do the elves carry you everywhere in the Manor? I guess we can't blame you for that entirely. Okay, so you see—one leg on the first stair, and then very quickly, putyour other leg on the next stair. Here comes the tricky part: grab the railing with your hand and _do it again._"

"Why thanks, Weasley," I snapped, growing tired of her attitude. I made a very exaggerated show of following her directions. A few seconds, I was back to where I started. For a moment, Weasley cocked her head to the side, confused.

And then, the entire dormitory was ringing with her laughter.

"You own _dorm_ thinks you're a girl," she wheezed.

"Yes, I'm aware. I was hoping you could tell me how to fix it."

"Did you try a _Gradio_?"

"Yeah, and a _Passus Vestigium_."

"Well, I can't help you then. Goodnight, and thanks for the chuckles!"

"Wait! Weasley!"

Weasley appeared again at her doorway.

"What now?"

"What… what do I do?" Weasley snorted.

"_I_ couldn't care less. McGonagall is probably asleep by now. You can talk to her tomorrow, but in the meantime, those hardwood floors look mighty comfortable."

"Don't they? I'll pay you to sleep on them if I can have your bed for the night!"

"Please Malfoy, I don't want your money."

"This is probably the only time a man will ever offer you galleons and galleons for your services! I urge you to capitalize on this offer!"

Weasley instantaneously disappeared in a grumbling puff of "_male chauvinist asshole_".

"Wait, Weasley, I'll do anything!"

There were two solid beats of silence before Weasley appeared at her doorway again.

"_Anything_?"

I was suddenly scared. Scorpius is beautiful and nothing can change that, I told myself. It was my mantra.

"Why don't you sleep on the couch?"

"The couch is for peons. And it'll kill my back. I was planning on going flying with Cecilia Vane tomorrow evening." Weasley was quiet for a second.

"So, you'll do _anything_?"

I gulped. Scorpius is beautiful. I nodded. _Nothing can change that_.

"I'll share my bed with you tonight. _Chastely_, asshole. But tomorrow, you are _completely_ indebted to me. You will do whatever I say, whenever I say it. And I will torture you, I _promise_."

To be honest, the second my fears of sleeping on a couch had been dispelled, I stopped listening.

"I'm flattered you want to sleep with me," I smirked, already scaling up Weasley's stairs with a measure of success I couldn't replicate on my own.

"Don't—I _don't_—"

"Yeah, whatever." I made my way into her bedroom. I was minimalistic, but I suppose that was to be expected on the first night. With a nervous cough, Weasley tapped her wand against the bedpost twice.

Nothing happened.

"I'm—er—I'm trying to _enlarge_ it. It doesn't seem to be—"

"Oh, yeah. That doesn't work in Hogwarts. I think it's the only measure anyone ever took to enforce a little abstinence. Don't worry, I wouldn't expect you to know that particular facet of Hogwarts trivia."

Weasley blushed again. "You know, Malfoy, I could very well kick you out. I am doing this out of the kindness of my own heart and if you continue to abuse me, then I can very well—"

"You can take the couch then, because I am sure as hell not moving now," I replied kindly, hunkering down into Weasley rough cotton sheets. "Goodnight, Weasley."

"You bloody asshole," she muttered darkly, before extinguishing the lights and climbing in next to me. Though I was as far away as the bed would allow, I could feel the warmth of her body. I threw up a little.

This was _not_ the witch I had in mind.

Yours sleepily,

Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

Please review if you can!


	4. Tuesday, September 2

A/N: Yeah, this was supposed to be up a while ago, but I wasn't quite happy with it.

Chapter dedicated to Hannah (yes, _you_, Mizz DC) for inspiring it while actually doing nothing at all. Also for being a kick-ass writer _and_ reviewer. That takes _skills_, chica. :)

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

It's as if fate doesn't want me to sleep in my own bed. Every time I wake up on a mattress, I seem to be everywhere but where I'm supposed to be, my Head Boy dormitory.

For example, this morning, I woke up to not the beautiful image of myself reflected in one of the mirrors I always keep by my bedside, but to the face of a very groggy Rose Weasley, her red hair matted down on one side and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Hagrid.

And let me tell you, if _you _woke up to that, you would scream, too. After rolling out of bed, realizing why I was in Weasley's dormitory, shuddering, remembering what I had promised Weasley I would do for her today, and shuddering some more, I felt it _completely_ necessary to point my wand in her face and douse her with a strong jet of water.

"What the hell?" she yelled, bolting upright in her bed. After rubbing the water from her eyes, she looked around wildly, and upon seeing my (gorgeous, as ever) face, crossed her arms over her chest.

"Rise and shine, Weasley. It was the least I could do for you after you so generously offered me your bed," I smirked.

"Oh I am _so_ going to make today hell for you," she hissed, throwing the covers off her and marching up to me.

"Hell for me?"I repeated, the words feeling foreign in my mouth.

"Yes, Malfoy, _hell_. Or do you not remember our agreement yesterday?" I winced. Of course I remembered. And of course I instantly regretted agreeing to it. I couldn't have just agreed to sleep on the couch?

"And what," I asked, staring at her with a look of mild interest, "makes you so sure I'm _actually_going to comply? I mean, I've already gotten what I wanted, why would I actually keep my word and announce to the Great Hall that you think you're better than me?" I expected Weasley to bland at this thought, shoot me a venomous glare and stomp off, spitting a stream of choice words at me.

What I _didn't_ expect was for her to smile grandly and say," Of course I expected you to do that. I'm not an idiot, you know. I could have made you make an Unbreakable Vow, but that takes too long, so I bewitched you in your sleep. For all of today, you have to do _everything _you agreed to." I raised my eyebrows disbelievingly.

"Honestly, Weasley, you want me to believe that you _Imperiused_ me in my sleep?" I mean, _really_. It takes _evil_ to do an Unforgivable.

"Not an _Imperius_. You actually _agreed _to do all of this last night. It's an ancient Gaelic charm my grandmother taught me to make people keep their promises. You only have to say you'd do it, and an Imperius is completely unnecessary."

"I'm so sure."

"Don't believe me? Watch. Malfoy, lift my trunk." I snorted, but then, to my great surprise, I felt my legs walking to Rose's trunk. I stared down at them, completely bewildered. I felt detached from my body. My arms leaned down and picked Rose's trunk up off the floor. And then, all of a sudden I was back in control. I felt the heaviness of the trunk in my arms and I promptly dropped it.

"Weasley, you little-,"

"It's actually a whole lot easier if you do it willingly," she continued, completely disregarding me,"You'll have more control. Try it. Malfoy, drop and give me ten." I dropped myself on the floor consciously and was relieved to feel all of my limbs under my control. I wonder... I reached for the little sack in my pocket.

"Here, I said, rising up again and dropping ten shiny bronze knuts into her palm. Her eyes narrowed.

"I _meant_ ten push-ups."

"I know, but doing it willingly means I can translate it however I want," I replied, shooting her a twisted smile and hurrying out of the room before she could attack me with another demand.

* * *

"Very well," McGonagall sighed, spreading marmalade on a slice of toast, "I shall see to it that your dormitory is completely normal by the time you go to bed again today."

"Thank you, Professor," I smiled, and walked back to my table. I had almost reached the idiotically grinning Zabini when I felt a hand clutch the sleeve of my robes. I turned.

"Weasley, let go of me, you cow. Just because we share a common room doesn't mean you have a right to touch me, as much as you may want to," I snapped, pulling a fistful of black fabric from her hand.

"Oh, shut it Malfoy," she scowled. She was sitting next to a bemused Amaryllis Finnigan and a glaring Albus Potter. I caught his angry gaze and stared right back at him, until his new girlfriend of the week, Penelope Thomas (fifty percent black, fifty percent East Indian, one hundred percent _hot_), plopped down next to him and gave him a peck on the cheek. I rolled my grey eyes at her; everyone knows Penelope is only dating Albus to get me jealous.

_Too bad it's not working._

I looked back at Weasley.

"Well? Did you want something? Or were you honestly just pouncing on a chance to grope me?"

"Of course I wanted something. Malfoy, make your announcement now. No one is better than Rose Weasley. Malfoy sucks. Say it,"she ordered, her azure eyes glinting rather mischievously. I snorted, fully intending to tell her to fuck off, when of course, I felt the familiar sensation of losing all sensation wash over me again. Before I knew it, I was unwillingly climbing up on the Gryffindor table, clanging a spoon to my goblet to attract more attention.

Oh crap. Crap, crap, crap. I need a loophole. But what could I possibly say...? And then it struck me.

"If I could have silence," I yelled, my voice reverberating off every object in the now dead quiet room, "I have an announcement to make. I was told to tell you that no one is better than Rose Weasley, you know, my nauseating fellow Head. And also that I, Malfoy, am better than no one." I took a deep breath and drew in the Gryffindors' smug expressions. "But logically. If no one is better than Rose Weasley, and I am better than no one, I must be better than Rose Weasley, right?" I looked down again, smirking, and I felt my body regain senses. I stepped off of the table, making sure to knock Potter and Weasley's plates into their laps. Everyone was now laughing, their fingers pointed at Weasley and their eyes trained on me.

"Malfoy, that was _not _what we had agreed on!" the redhead exclaimed, ignoring the jeers coming from the Slytherin table. But I just kept walking, high-fiving a few fellow Slytherins and winking at some swooning girls.

Oh, I am _good_.

* * *

True to her word, Rose had indeed tried to make today as hellish as possible. But you've got to remember, I'm Scorpius Malfoy. Things _just _don't suck as much when you're Scorpius Malfoy.

But Scorpius Malfoy or not, one thing is certain. That woman can _nag_.

Malfoy, fan me. Malfoy, read me this passage. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy. You'd really think that she just likes saying my name.

Then again, I can't blame her.

And even though I'd been getting showered with praise for my stint this morning, being some batty sadistic Gryffindor's personal assistant for a day can make you really wish the aforementioned day was over. So you can imagine my relief when the last class of the day rolled around.

"Malfoy, hold these," she said, dropping a stack of textbooks in my arms. I glanced at the titles.

_Modern Transfiguration. _

_Advanced Potion-Making 7._

_A History of Magic, Revised Edition. _

_The Book of Charms: Grade Seven. _

_Advanced Defensive Spells: A Guide to Battling the Dark Arts_.

"Weasley. We're going to Transfiguration. You only need _one_ of these books."

She turned to me and flashed a toothy smile, "I know."

_Man_ that girl is evil. I'm starting to wonder whether she could have pulled off an Unforgivable, after all.

I waited until the Spawn of Satan had caught up with Amaryllis and Potter, who was attached by the lip to Penelope Thomas before I plopped the books down, and abandoned them in the middle of the hallway.

Weasley didn't realize this until we were already in the classroom.

"Where are my books?" she screeched, first searching around me as if I might have hidden them behind my back, then glaring up at me, looking about ready to claw my eyes out. I looked up to the front of the classroom and saw that Professor Boot wasn't here yet. I turned back to Weasley and shrugged.

"You only told me to hold them, so I did. I left them somewhere in the hallway. You're welcome to go look."

"You _what_? _You little_- I can't- You are _so_ going to-" But what exactly I was _so_going to do, I never found out, for at that precise moment, Weasley flicked out her wand and sent a lime green beam of light at me. I felt myself falling back, amidst a roar of laughter. There were these strange, wet things attacking my face, my arms, even my hair. I stumbled back, blinded. I couldn't see. I felt my head meet a solid wall and pain shoot through my entire head. And just before I blacked out, I vaguely remembered Weasley's voice in my ear, "I learned _that_ one from my aunt."

* * *

So that's why I woke up later that evening in the Hospital Wing.

"Oh, good," Madame Pomfrey said, handing me a goblet of shimmering purple liquid, "You're up. Drink this. It's make your nose feel better. Nasty Bat-Bogey Hex, that was. The last time I saw one that bad, it was your father laying here, recovering from the one Ginny Weasley set on him." I groaned, but the ancient healer paid me no heed. "Do you know who did it? You were blacked out when you came here, and Mr. Zabini and Miss Thomas couldn't tell who did it."

"I think it was Weasley," I muttered.

"Weasley? Well, which one? There are loads here, you know."

"Rose Weasley," I clarified, feeling stronger by just putting the blame on her.

"Oh don't be silly," she chuckled,"Your head must hurt incredibly. _Rose Weasley_, now _honestly_. She just came up here an hour ago to give you your books and some notes." I glanced at the table by my bedside. There were, in fact, books, but none of them mine. I glanced the scrap of parchment left on top of them. I picked it up, and stared for a moment, trying to keep the words from doubling before my eyes.

_Take these to our Common Room._

That's what it said. No _sorry_. No _didn't mean to_. Not a trace of remorse. Just an order to take the bitch's books back to the Common Room. I grunted.

"Mr. Malfoy, drink your potion. You'll feel better, I assure you,"

I sipped the potion in my hand, and indeed, my throbbing nostrils seemed to cool instantaneously. My headache immediately subsided and the scratches on my face stopped burning.

The only thing the potion didn't fix, though, was what hurt the most of all-- my pride.

In Pain,  
Scorpius Malfoy

o0o0o0o0o0o

I think I made Rose more evil than I planned to.

Next chapter, Scorp (tries to) get his revenge.

So. Loved the chap? Hated it? Got oodles of ConCrit? Tell me in a quaint little review. Go on, I dare you. ;)


	5. Wednesday, September 3

A/N: *sigh* I had severe writer's block with this. Ugh. Enjoy, though.

Chapter dedicated to **honda**, because she's just awesome like that.

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

I stared in the mirror and groaned.

And then I realized that I've _never_ done that before. Groaned at my reflection, I mean. My reflection is simply not groan-inducing. Swoon-inducing, heartbreak-inducing sure, but I am a gorgeous person. I have never ever found the urge to groan upon seeing myself in the mirror. _Ever_.

Until, of course, today. But no worries. I hadn't suddenly become horribly malformed or anything. I was perfectly fine.

Except for the scar.

Actually, in all honesty, the scar looked kind of sexy. It stretched from my right cheekbone to my temple and it gave me a rugged, takes-risks, bad-ass look that many guys would die for. But not me. Because even though the plan was to tell everyone I had gotten it while taming wild hippogriffs, it was actually a cruel reminder of Weasley's skill and temper, glaring back at me, a badge of humiliation I was forced to wear.

So I groaned again, and heaved myself off the Hospital Wing cot. Madame Pomfrey scurried up to me and handed me another flask of the shimmering purple liquid ("Just in case, dear") and told me I was free to leave (although she didn't seem too pleased about that).

"Don't forget your books," she called, and left to tend to some other poor kid's injury. I forced a smile and eyed the books. There were at least fifteen. I sighed. Typical.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," I muttered, flicking my wand at the books. They hovered up behind me as I made my way to the Head's Common Room. It was late, and I was looking forward to finally using my own bed. Spending two nights without my imported silk sheets was _really_ taking it's toll on me.

I made it all the way to the fourth floor corridor before my tentative inner peace was shattered. A scrawny little runt of a first-year had barreled into me, knocking my ebony wand out of my hand and sending the pile of lazily hovering books crashing to the floor.

_Wonderful_.

"What the _hell_?" I exclaimed, as I watched the boy turn to me with wide-eyed horror. He squeaked. All my pent-up rage and anger had suddenly become unstoppered, and this lucky little boy got to witness it. "Are you fucking _blind_? Why don't you watch where you're going? You know _what_? You _will _watch where you're going next time, because unlucky for you, you nearly knocked over a Head Boy today. Head Boys can dock points. What are you, a Ravenclaw? Twenty-five points from Ravenclaw, now get out of my face before I make it fifty!" The little boy squeaked again and stumbled away, hands shaking and eyes brimming with tears. Serves him right.

I looked down at the pile of books that now so beautifully decorated the ground. It vaguely occurred to me that I probably should have made the kid clean this mess up first. I groaned for the fifteenth time today and started gathering the books. I threw them on top of each other into a haphazard pile and grabbed my wand off of the floor.

That's when I saw it.

It was a few feet next to my wand, sticking half-way out of Weasley's copy of _A History of Magic: Revised Edition_. Every inch of the creamy white piece of parchment was covered in ink. At first I assumed they were notes. I skimmed the piece of paper, considering stealing it to replace my own nonexistent History of Magic studying paraphernalia. Then I froze.

My eyes landed on a sentence underlined and surrounded by microscopic hearts.

_He is the sexiest being alive._

That's what it said. And then I realized the handwriting changed every few lines. And _then_ it hit me.

Nothing in Professor Binns ever said would spark someone to write _'He is the sexiest being alive'_.

These weren't notes.

Or at least, not the scholastic kind. It _was _a note, a conversation on paper. I studied the varying lines of messy scrawl and precise penmanship (Weasley's, obviously), and sat down, in the middle of the hallway, intrigued. I struggled to decipher the first person's script, but Weasley was so damn perfect that her writing would be crystal-clear 40 meters away. And the fact that _he_ - whoever _he_ was - was the sexiest being alive was declared in _her_ font.

Weasley's got a crush. By the looks of this sheet, a little _more_ than a crush, actually.

Oh. This is good.

No. _This_ is my revenge.

* * *

It was Lorcan Scamander. It took me a half-hour of squinting at Amaryllis Finnigan's screwed-up cursive to come to this conclusion. Weasley's sexiest being alive was _Lorcan Scamander_. The freaking ape-boy descendant of Newt Scamander.

It was quite a blow to my ego.

Not that I care what Weasley thinks, but it is pretty much universally accepted that _I_ am the sexiest being alive.

Being overthrown by bug-eyed, blond-haired Lorcan Scamander stung a bit. But _Weasley_ declaring this made it so much better.

Flicking my wand at the books, I half-ran to the Common Room, stuffing the note into my pocket just as I reached the portrait of the fair maiden.

"Scorpius is a sexy beast," I told her, and she swung open, but not not before she could throw me a lusty wink. I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed. A lovesick painting.

I burst in, expecting to find it empty (it was past midnight by now). Instead, I found Rose Weasley, perched upon the handle of a squashy red armchair, gazing into the fireplace with a cloudy, distant look in her eyes. She didn't acknowledge my arrival in any way, choosing to adopt a dreamy, mysterious stance instead.

Three guesses as to who _she's _thinking about.

And then, quite suddenly, she broke out of her reverie and focused her ink-blue eyes on me.

"Hello," I prompted awkwardly, after a solid two minutes of silence had passed.

"Malfoy," she greeted carefully, hesitantly, as if her words could do more damage than her hexes, "Are you... okay?" She rose (no pun intended) from her seat and tentatively walked forward.

For some inexplicable reason, this made me mindlessly angry. I had spent an entire day in the hospital wing after being unceremoniously assaulted by a horde of snotty bats _she_ set on me, and the bitch had the _audacity_ to ask me if _I was okay_.

I could feel my eyes flashing, and apparently she could sense my livid vibes as well, as she put her hands up in front of her like she wanted to stop me from advancing. Odd, considering I hadn't moved an inch since my entrance.

"Wait, Malfoy," she whispered, a strange note of urgency inflecting her voice. "I... I'm really sorry about...," she broke off, gesturing to my right cheek.

This was surreal. Weasley was apologizing? To me?

"You're sorry," I repeated, waiting for her to confirm that this wasn't a figment of my long-dormant imagination.

"I am," she repeated earnestly, "but I wanted to ask you..."

"Ask me what?"

"If you would mind not telling anyone?" And then she lost it. "Oh, Malfoy if the administration found out, I would be done for! I would be stripped of my Head Girl honor and..."

I couldn't suppress a snort of laughter. It sounded strange, out of place, voiced so abruptly between Weasley's hushed pleas. Her eyes looked up at me, alarmed.

And then I understood.

Weasley wasn't sorry at all. The only reason she was up so late in the first place was to confirm that I wouldn't rat her out. She could care less what her spell had done to me, as long as she wasn't pinned with the blame.

This girl had a heart of tar.

It's a wonder she wasn't deemed a Slytherin.

"No," I smirked after a short pause. "I won't reveal your precious little secret."

Even if I was ever overcome by the urge to tell anyone that a girl - a _Weasley_, at that - had managed to hex me, no one would believe me. Because in their eyes, she was an angel, morally incapable of even voicing a hex.

I felt it unnecessary to share this with her. Let her think her fate rested in my hands.

"Thank you," she breathed, visibly relaxing, "Honestly, Malfoy-,"

"Because," I continued, impervious to her interuption, "I'm going to get my revenge." I shot her a sly smile, watching her eyes harden.

"Your... revenge?" she repeated, staring at me incredulously.

"Yes." There was a tense pause.

"And how," she finally managed, "are you planning to do that?"

I finally pulled my wand from behind me, sending the pile of books crashing to the floor again. Weasley snorted.

"What? Planning on getting me back by destroying my books?"

"You're going to wish," I responded coolly, drawing the creased piece of parchment from the pocket of my robes.

At first she looked at it blankly, and then her eyes registered recognition. In the span of four seconds, her face underwent an entire rainbow of emotions. Fear. Anger. Resentment. Disgust. I even detected a hint of betrayal in there.

Absurd. As if I held any trust to betray.

"How did you get that?" she hissed. I couldn't tell if it was the flickering firelight or the thought of the predicament that lay before her, but soon her innocently roseate complexion was morphing into a splendid fire-engine red.

"You know," I commented, amused, "whoever said _'Roses are Red'_ was really onto something." Another pun. I'm killing myself here.

"You disgust me," she sputtered, suddenly resembling a rabid animal of some sort.

"Right, because _I_ attacked you with a Bat-Bogey Hex."

"And _I_ left your books abandoned in a random hallway!" she countered.

"Because _I_ insisted on making you my slave for a day!"

"Since _I_ couldn't just sleep on the couch for one fucking night!"

There was a silence. Looking back, I suppose the entire debacle was really my fault, but I wasn't about to admit this to the flaming redhead. So I called forth my revenge plot.

"I would be careful around me," I whispered dangerously,"You wouldn't want me to accidentally drop my wand on this." I pantomimed dropping the sliver of wood on the parchment and watched Weasley grow wide-eyed as the paper duplicated and enlarged. I tapped it again and it shrunk back, the copies vanishing.

"You're blackmailing me," she clarified after a moment, repeating it like a statement rather than a question.

"I believe so."

"What," she growled, "do you want me to do?"

"I..." To be frank, I hadn't thought of what I could wheedle her into doing. Personal assistant for a day? I shuddered. I had enough bad memories with that. Give me something? What could she possibly have that I wanted? I paused. "Just stay out of my way and we'll be fine."

Weasley snorted again, some of her confidence seeping back into her frozen facade. "Honestly, Malfoy? We'll _never_ be fine." And with that, she bounded up her staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

I sat there, in silence for a long while, pondering her words.

_Honestly, Malfoy? We'll never be fine._

_We'll never be fine._

I knew this. I've known this for a very long time. I've accepted it with eager arms.

So _why_, coming out of her mouth, did it sound so _foreboding_?

Speculatively Yours,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

Right. So I'm sorry for the delay. I've got good news and bad news.

The Good News: Sick of writer's block. I've sketched out the plot line of this until Chapter 17 so I won't be stuck without inspiration.

The Bad News: I still have to _write_ it. I'll try to stick to my once-a-week posting schedule, but no promises.

Now. Remember waaaay back in chapter one when I mentioned something about Warlock Wives?

Yeah. I have no clue what it _is_; I just needed a classy alliteration. It has to be Malfoy-esque and severely money-making.

So, any ideas?

Paper clip one to one of your reviews, and if I like it, I'll use it. (I'll credit you, too.)

_And_ you'll get a virtual cookie. Or a virtual cinnamon bun. I love cinnamon buns. Yum. :)


	6. Thursday, September 4

A/N: I'm writing this with sore limbs and an extremely cantankerous mood. Ugh. _Sports camp_. XP  
I tried SO hard to post this yesterday, but I couldn't Only a day late, though, and an extra 1000 words from the usual 2000. Forgive me? :)

Chapter dedicated to **Erra**. Happy (belated) birthday (again, I know)! I seriously recommend reading her RoseScorpius seven-shot.

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

If I tell you, you'll laugh. Seriously, your imaginary guffaws will _haunt_ me. You see, the first night I have the _option_ of actually _using my own bed_, I end up falling asleep on the couch. The bloody _couch_.

The irony kills me.

Luckily, I woke up before Weasley (sleeping on a couch has its advantages-- or disadvantages, depending on how you look at it) and managed to head upstairs to take a shower before she could detect my faux-pas.

When I reemerged in all my godly glory, I was surprised to find her sitting on said couch, opening a gold-colored envelope. I froze. I was counting on her being at breakfast by now; a Weasley encounter is _not_ something I can face in the morning. So, I attempted to slip by her, subtle and undetected.

_"Malfoy!"_

Shit.

I made a face before turning around.

"Weasley," I greeted haughtily before heading back to the door.

"Wait," she called out. I turned again. "You've got mail."

Mail? I glanced towards the gilded window for a glimpse of my owl's glossy onyx feathers. But all I could see was a stretch of clear, cerulean sky, not a bird in sight. I looked back at Weasley, confused.

She was still reading the letter, the glittering envelope tucked under her arm.

That's when I saw _another_envelope, identical to Weasley's, laying on the coffee table. Curious, I walked toward it, and sure enough, it had _S. Malfoy_ embossed on it in a flamboyantly flowery script.

"Thanks?" I said, looking back at where Weasley was sitting, but she was already up, a few feet from the portrait hole. That's when something occurred to me. "Wait. Did you stay here just to tell me that?" She turned back to me, throwing me a flat look that I easily decoded. I was perplexed. "_Why_? Weasley, we're not supposed to _tolerate_ each other."

Her eyes hardened, and in that millisecond, I saw a flashback of last night. And then I realized it.

She had been taking me seriously.

It was working. My revenge plot was actually _working._

I couldn't contain the grin that was slowly making its way across my face. She saw this, too, and her eyes grew even harder, until the happy-go-lucky blue pools in them had seemingly frozen over, icy and unforgiving.

"I like jam on my toast," I smirked, and turned back to the envelope before she could throw me another scathing look. She didn't move as I opened it and pulled out a small, thick card engraved with the same flowery font.

_Mister Malfoy,_

_Quidditch tryouts for the Slytherin team will be held on Saturday, the sixth of September at precisely 10:00 AM. Your presence is requested to help replace vacant spots and reevaluate old players. I look forward to seeing you soon._

_Sincerely,  
Cecilia Vane  
Slytherin Quidditch Captain_

I read over the card about four times before I looked up again. Weasley was still there, staring at me with that look of forced tranquility. I momentarily forgot about the rift between us.

"Quidditch?" I asked, pointing to the sliver of gold peeking out from her book bag. She nodded stiffly. "Since when do we _not_ have to try out again?"

"It's another perk of being a Head," she replied in an overly-polite voice. I cringed. This was becoming borderline creepy. It was almost as if she was waiting for me to let my guard down, to be less careful around her...

"Right," I responded, my voice unable to mask the slight note of unease. Weasley smiled at this, a much more familiar, you-are-so-going-to-regret-messing-with-me smile, and fluttered out the portrait hole.

I blew out a breath, part relieved that Weasley had retained some of her old smugness through my blackmail and part wary, afraid that maybe I _was_ going to regret this.

* * *

"Taming wild hippogriffs?" Zabini repeated, his eyes wide with awe. I scanned the faces of the admiring audience that had formed around my table in the Great Hall and paused dramatically.

"Of course! The oaf Hagrid doesn't know the first thing about magical creatures. He noted my buff physique and obvious gift of intelligence and sent me into the forest immediately." I silently thanked myself for deciding to skip his class that day. It left me with the perfect alibis.

"But," Penelope Thomas started,"we found you passed out in the Transfiguration room with only Rose and Albus near you. Rose was hysterical, and Albus was... well, you know how Albus is." I _did_know how Albus was. I could see him purposely stepping on me, and then yelling at my unconscious corpse to get the hell out of the way. And Weasley in hysterics? As much as I dislike the girl, I have to admit, her acting skills are quite incredible.

"The Transfiguration room?" a willowy Hufflepuff repeated, sounding confused."How'd you end up in the castle after getting mauled by a hippogriff in the forest?" I turned away quickly so she wouldn't see my expression faltering as I scrambled to come up with an excuse. It's lucky that I'm so gifted in lying.

Although technically, I'm gifted in everything. But that's besides the point.

"After I used my wand to enclose the uncooperative beast, I found that it might be advisable to come up the hospital wing to make sure that my scar hadn't become infected," I explained, easily making up the tale on the spot. The Hufflepuff put a hand to her mouth and continued to examine my face.

She was loving having a legitamate excuse to ogle my chiseled features.

I was kind of loving it too.

"But that doesn't explain how you were blacked out in the Transfiguration room," Zabini said, furrowing his eyebrows. I had to work not to glare at him. Sometimes his obsessive observantness when it came to all things Scorpius was more of burden than a gift.

"Well, I couldn't have Boot thinking I skipped class," I said deliberately, as if everyone should have expected this role model behavior out of me. "I mean, I _am_ Head Boy, after all." There was a rippling murmur of assent.

"But," Zabini continued. I stifled a groan. _Of course_there was a but. "How'd you black out? When Thomas and I found you, the room was practically empty..." I grinned internally. _This_ I had an answer for.

"Turns out my cut _was_infected. You all know that powdered hippogriff talon is the chief ingredient in the Fainting Formula. In it's raw, undiluted state, it's even more dangerous. It started kicking in before I could make my way to the Hospital Wing." I glanced at my crowd again, satisfied. Thank Merlin everyone knows about my Potions prowess.

"_More_dangerous?" Penelope Thomas whimpered, her big brown eyes filled with both marvel and sympathy. I gave her a grim look, hiding the smirk playing along my lips. In reality, raw hippogriff talon was less dangerous, never doing more harm than inflicting slight wooziness. A little know fact this was, but I decided against clueing them in.

"Yes," I agreed, nevertheless,"Who knows what could have happened to me?" I heard a snort. I looked over to where the sound came from, and found that Potter had joined the crowd, lacing his fingers through Penelope's. I shot him a slightly smug look - which he returned with a grimace-, and reveled in the fact that although he was dying to tell everyone I was lying, it was really his _cousin's_ ass that was on the line. "Problem, Potter?"

He glanced up at me, his green eyes glinting in a way that clearly said _Yes, there is a problem._He bit his lip, clearly re-weighing his options. Suddenly, someone behind me cleared their throat. I swiveled around to see that Weasley had appeared, arms folded across her chest, throwing Potter a very sour look.

"No problem, right Al?" she hissed. He glared for a moment, then grudgingly shook his head.

And then, light bulb! I thought of a brilliant way to torture him even further.

"Actually," I began, as I shoveled a baked potato into my mouth, "Weasley was just telling me this morning how gorgeous I looked with the scar. What was the word you used? Ravishing, right?" It took a second for the words to sink into the knot of people. I saw -no, _heard_- Weasley's jaw drop open to protest, so I quickly rambled on.

"Yes. She told me that I looked like the _sexiest being alive. _She must have been half out-of-it, though, because she asked me _not to tell_. I dunno, though, many people would consider that fellow... what's his name? Right. _Lorcan Scamander_. Many people -girls, that is- think _he's_ the _sexiest person alive._I don't see the appeal." When I turned again, it was hard to tell who's gaze was more murderous, Weasley's or Potter's. Weasley was glowering at me, her fingers clenched to point where I was surprised I didn't see blood and her jaw locked, the muscle there pulsating rather dangerously. Potter's scowl, on the other hand, was fixated on Weasley. The daggers in his eyes were so deadly that they could have caused physical pain, that is, if the fingernails didn't do it first.

A strange strangling sound came from the back of Potter's throat. I could hear him in his head, demanding an explanation. But Weasley just stood there, livid, trying to calm her breathing so she wouldn't let something slip. I took advantage of her self-imposed muteness.

"And what were you saying about my chest? It was rock hard and chiseled, I believe. You called it a god bod if I'm correct," I continued. The small mob around the table suddenly seemed ravenous for more of my straight lies. I grinned and opened my mouth to continue.

"You're not." I heard a quiet voice. I turned. It was, of course, Weasley, her voice surprisingly calm and composed for having just been the subject of my public humiliation. I raised my eyebrows.

"Excuse me? I'm not _what_?"

"You're not correct. You know as well as I do that you're lying through your teeth here," she clarified. She unclenched her fingers, the nails leaving pink crescent-shaped marks on her palm.

"No, actually," I said after a rather pregnant pause. Was she losing her mind? She _knew_ what I could do to her. "I do remember you saying those things. Remember _last night_?"

Weasley squeezed her eyes shut, and for a moment, the only sound was that of her breathing in and out slowly and deliberately. The corners of my mouth twitched upward. Battle won.

Her eyes popped open again. "No, Malfoy. I know you're trying to humiliate me. It's not going to work."

Or not.

I stared at her for a few moments, trying to gauge her sanity level. It was obviously very low at this point.

"Weasley." It was a warning. And by the pained expression in her eyes, I knew she knew this as well as I did.

"Malfoy," she said finally. And I knew. She was going to fight back. She wasn't going to let me do this to her. I felt a pang of annoyance at the back of my head. I was having _so_ much fun infuriating her. I looked back to the crowd and found myself beyond surprised to feel more than the prior thirteen or fourteen gazes. Actually, now that I think about it, every pair of eyes in the Great Hall was staring at me then and there. Waiting.

"Where was that thing you gave me yesterday?" I asked loudly, ruffling through my pockets. I gave Weasley a pointed look. _Last chance._

"What thing?" she replied. She wasn't taking it. I sighed loudly and pulled the note from my pocket. From across the room, I saw Amaryllis Finnigan stiffen.

"This thing of course," I said, my voice silky now. I cleared my throat and read through it, my voice much louder than it needed to be,"'Hey Mer, don't you think the back of Lorcan Scamander's head is insanely hot?' 'Hot? Well, I suppose...' 'Of course it's not nearly as hot as the front of his head.' 'Rosie, you're obsessed. Think what would happen if the boy found out you practically stalk him' 'I don't stalk him. He's just the sexiest being alive. And he's got killer abs' 'Abs? Rosie, don't tell me you're a voyeur' 'Ha...'" I trailed off at this line deliberately. The entire Great Hall seemed enraptured by me. It was wonderful. And they all thought Weasley had serious issues. Even better. I actually spotted Scamander slinking out of the room, his face slightly green with embarrassment.

But his face was nothing -_nothing_- compared to Weasley's. Her complexion was so red that that it actually made her hair looked washed out. I could tell that she was fighting tears and her teeth were clenched so tightly that I could pretty much hear it powdering. And then she quite literally exploded.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" she roared. She made to pounce, but someone had her firmly held by the back of her robes. "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST ANNOUNCED TO THE ENTIRE SCHOOL THAT I LIKE LORCAN SCAMANDER!" For some strange reason, this amused me to no end.

"Like him? Weasley, they think you're _stalking_ the poor boy."

"_Well, I wonder why_," she shot back, her voice dripping so much sarcasm that I could have bottled and sold the excess.

"Because you _are_," I told her in a voice usually reserved for speaking to very young children.

"I am not!" she screeched indignantly. She stamped her foot. Like, literally. Her foot went up and slammed down. It looked so comical that I didn't even bother to hide my chuckle.

"Anyway," I continued, "His named is Lorcan. _Lorcan_. Who names their kid _Lorcan?_It's almost as bad as Albus Severus."

"Real rich," Weasley shouted, her voice now containing an edge of hysteria,"coming from a guy named Scorpius!" I winced.

Touche.

"Scorpius," I said hotly - my name was a rather tender subject-, "was the name of three great and powerful wizards."

"Right."

"Really. Scorpius van Baosen, Dutch alchemist; Scorpius Knightingham III, ancient ruler; and Scorpius Malfoy, hottest guy alive!"

"You wish!"

"I _know_!"

"You are so fucking _vain_! Fall off a cliff and die! It would do the rest of the world's population a huge favor" Weasley yelled. I only vaguely realized that the rest of the hall was dead silent as we taunted each other from the center of the room. People had their spoons frozen half-way to their mouths, their eyes glued to the scene.

"Oh you just asked for it! _Levicorp_-,"

"_Petrificus Tot-,"_

"_ENOUGH_!"

I whirled around, to glare at whoever had dared interrupt our fight and what -_who_- I saw, glared back so fiercely, it made my blood run cold.

Hello, Professor McGonagall. Fancy seeing you here.

* * *

"Never in all my years at Hogwarts have I seen something so despicable!" McGonagall spat, her eyes flashing lethally,"Two seventh-years,_ Head Boy and Girl_, fighting, cursing, _hexing_ in the middle of the Great Hall! I should very well strip you of your titles right now!" She paused, letting her words sink in.

"Professor, no! Please-," Weasley blubbered, tears water-falling down the planes of her cheeks and spattering all over her robes.

"Quiet, Weasley!" she snapped. "I said I _should_. But, I realize that this probably won't solve anything. You two will report to my office on Sunday at exactly 6:00 in the morning to report for your punishment."

One weekend morning? I could handle that. I suppose I deserved as much.

"What will we be doing, Professor?"

Throw anything my way, McGonagall.

Polishing?

Lines?

Forbidden Forest?

I could take anything.

McGonagall's lips set into a thin, grim smile. "You two will be attending a form of remedial couceling. We'll be locking you in a classroom together for twenty-four hours."

My jaw dropped open.

Anything but _that_.

Regretfully,  
Scorpius Malfoy

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Hmm. I didn't really like this chapter too much.

But feel free to disagree. ;)

Thanks to everyone who sent in Warlock Wives ideas! I'll leave that up for one more chapter in case there are any more epiphanies. ;)

Right. A couple of authors have pointed this out, and I have to agree.

We're cracking down on phantom favoritors.

As in, people who favorite without reviewing.

It's really great that you favorite the story, but doing so means you like it. A review is all I ask for. If you favorite without reviewing, it's like... eating the donut before you buy it. No, not really, bad analogy, but you catch my drift. Reviews make it all worth while.

So please.

And remember, I know who you are. ;)

Cheers.


	7. Saturday, September 6

A/N: I'm sure you don't care about my excuses, but I'll give you one anyway: I had to go on this surprise trip to DC and couldn't access a computer for a while. A very long while.

Chapter dedicated to **Bailz **for giving this story it's 100th review!  
Now, about Warlock Wives, I've decided to make it a magazine for women, CEO'd by Draco. It'll be kind of pompous and superficial, and it would make sense for Scorpius to be the way he is, growing up in that type of atmosphere. I can't credit one person for it, since blended a lot of ideas into one. So thanks to all!  
Also, happy belated to Hannah (who hasn't been on in _ages -- coughcough_). :)

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Dear Man-Journal,

You know, my mother never caught the irony in calling me a son-of-a-bitch. She would throw that word around as often as possible, particularly when she was drunk, and never understand why it wouldn't bother me. She wasn't a sharp one, my mother. But she _did_ believe a lot in keeping up appearances. That's why I used to treasure my visits to Aunt Daphne's as a child; my mother would always pretend to be sweet and gentle and caring. And even though my aunt was never fooled, the facade was always a pleasant difference.

So I suppose I have my mother's absolute hatred of public displays of anger (something about always being dignified, no matter what) to thank for my lack of a howler. Instead, she sent me a crisply worded letter of how she would personally see to it that home would equal hell if I ever lost my title.

Weasley can't say the same. Luckily for her though, Heads get their mail sent straight to their common room, so no one other than her and I heard the piercing shriek of her mother as she yelled endlessly about how absolutely disgusted she was with her. _Unlucky_ for her, I'm not exactly quiet about these things.

Needless to say, things between us have been frostier than ever since the debacle two days ago. We've never exactly talked to each other willingly in the commons, but now the silence was forced, pronounced. Someone stopping by would think that we were both mute, the way the room is dead silent all the time.

But today, Weasley was the last thing on my mind. Today was the day of the Quidditch tryouts. The day where, for the first time, I didn't have to prove myself to get what I wanted. Where I got what I wanted handed to me on a silver platter.

Okay. Maybe not _first_ time. But here at school, it's not very common for me.

Or maybe it is.

But I'm trying to make a point.

So I woke up early and pulled on my bottle green Quidditch robes and grabbed my _Lightning 3000 _before bounding down my stairs. I hardly noticed Weasley seated on the couch in her own scarlet robes as I zipped past her. My sudden desire to feel the wind slapping against my face was overwhelming. I...

Wait.

I turned around cold. Weasley. In her Quidditch robes. Lacing up her Chaser's gloves.

Go ahead and guess who was at the front of my mind again.

"Where do you think you're going?" I asked coldly. Actual noise, especially human-generated, seemed so out-of-place here, so _strange_. Like watching a troll do ballet. It was slightly uncomfortable. but I didn't let this distract me.

Weasley seemed to want to ignore me altogether, but her sense of self-righteousness was too overpowering. She glanced up and twisted her lips into a scowl.

"I don't believe that's any of your business Malfoy, but it should seem fairly obvious considering my current ensemble."

I didn't bother retaliating the sarcasm.

"But why? _Slytherin_ tryouts are now. They're bound to take a few hours at the least. What are you? _'Always prepared'_ on steroids or something?"

She narrowed her eyes, ignoring the jab.

"Check your memory, Malfoy. Gryffindor tryouts start at ten."

"No. Slytherin tryouts start at ten."

"Wrong, Malfoy," she snapped, producing her golden envelope from a bag and chucking it at my head. I opened and pulled out her letter, which was written on a thin, worn sheet of parchment. I narrowed my eyes at the words. Sure enough, the note claimed 10:00 AM, signed, sealed, delivered by Albus Potter himself.

"Mine says 10:00 AM, too," I insisted, flashing my own card at her. Her irritation grew to confusion, which in a few seconds grew to what looked a good deal like dread.

"Combined tryouts?" she squeaked to herself at the same moment I thought it.

I sighed, suddenly feeling resigned, too drained to be angry or even very surprised.

Was the entire school honestly out to get me?

* * *

It seemed that Weasley was infuriated enough for the both of us. As we raced to the pitch, the only thing I heard from her was a solid stream of curses. She was _seething_.

I didn't know why _I_ wasn't mad. I knew I should be; every other year before this, we'd had private tryouts. And having combined tryouts was not only going to ignite the on-field competition _way_to early, it was going to involve spending even more time near/around/in the general vicinity of Weasley.

But I felt strangely calm. It was this weird feeling, similar to one you'd get when you're expecting something mildly unpleasant.

When we finally threw open the doors leading to the pitch, we were greeted with... cheers. I gaped. I heard the torrent of vulgarities next to me shut off abruptly, as if someone had hit a button to stop it.

_What the hell was this?_

There were the crowds I was expecting: One on the left, speckled with students in emerald green, and one on the right, peppered with students in bloodred. And then there was what I was most certainly _not_ expecting: everyone else in the fucking _entire_ school.

Abandoning a still speechless Weasley at the door, I made a beeline toward the Slytherin team hopefuls and sought out the person I was looking for.

"Cecilia!" I called, shoving to the heart of the mob. A small figure in the customary green Quidditch robes turned and gave me small little smile. Everything about Cecilia Vane was contradictory. She was tiny, hardly much bigger than the Beater's bat in her hand, with delicate features, coal black hair, and a heart to match. She was also sly, cunning, and sharp-tongued, using her tragic past to build a false pretense of weakness before shattering it with her surprising strength and intelligence.

"Ah! Scorpius, you made it!" she chirped, her voice high and musical.

"Of course. Cecilia, what the hell's going on here?"

"Well," she laughed, "You know about the Head Boy and Girl's freebie onto the team. But the Head's haven't actually needed the freebie in over a decade; none of them have ever played. So I talked to Potter before we sent out the letters and he agreed that it might be fun to start the competition a little early this year. Especially since we haven't had two Heads who were both on opposing teams in _years._" I glanced at Cecilia warily. She was the kind of girl that could convince anyone of anything. I wasn't honestly very surprised that she had made captain, despite only being a fifth year.

The only possible alternative that could be as scheming and clever as her would be, well, me. Duh.

"Fun in what way?" I demanded, still surveying the scene through narrowed eyes.

"Oh, we won't be playing against eachother or anything," she clarified, reading my thoughts, "just a little who-can-put-together-the-best-team, set off a little jealousy with the raw talent we have here." I could tell she was trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

"But why is the entire school here?"

"Well, it _is_ an open try-out," she said innocently, and before I could interrogate her some more, she pointed to something over my left shoulder and squealed. "Look, Potter seems to want to talk. Come with me." And she grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me to the center of the field.

"Vane," Potter acknowledged as soon as we were within hearing range. He turned to give me a half-nod, but seemed to think better of it and ignored me altogether. Behind him, Weasley walked out, throwing a shallow smile at Cecilia, but refusing to look at me.

"Potter," Cecilia started, "Now, we're here just to get an early scope of the competition. I mean, the first match of the year is between us and it's in just a few weeks. So nothing to interfere, either side, right?"

"Right," Potter agreed, running a hand through his jet-black hair. "Good Luck." And then he was off.

Cecilia clucked her tongue at his retreating silhouette and wrinkled her nose. "They appointed _Potter_? Well, that's good for you, right Scorpius? He'll be stressed with all the responsibility of watching over the entire team. The tiniest thing can distract him from the snitch. Which, by the way, is your _only_priority. Get the snitch before he does." She suddenly got a devilish look in her eye, and she giggled before turning and loping back to the crowd.

* * *

And for some reason, we'd had double the amount than usual of hopefuls. About fifteen minutes into watching first-year after first-year fall off their brooms, I grew bored and thankful that I didn't make captain. At least I didn't really have to pay attention. Cecilia accepted the grunts of acceptance and snorts of disapproval that I randomly gave out when she looked to me for a second opinion.

I don't know how long I sat there in a state of semi-consiousness, but the sun was on the opposite side of the sky before I heard Cecilia whisper "Last one."

"Whoizzit?" I mumbled, still groggy from the hours of zoned out peace. She flipped through her notes and turned back to me.

"Um. Lysander Scamander." She bit her lip for a moment and then looked at me shrewdly. "Can you not be biased about him? I mean, I see you've got a thing against his brother, but..."

Ah. Clearly she remembered the Great Hall catastrophe.

Of course, who could forget?

Yes. That battle would definitely be going down in _Hogwarts, A History_.

I nodded blearily. "My mom's hair charmer's name is Lysander." She gave me a strange look while I yawned.

"Right. Well, Lysander, are you trying for beater again?" I squinted against the sunlight to see him nod. As smirky and smug as his twin brother is genuine and sincere, the one similarity they do share is their face. It's the exact same, right down to the location of each freckle. While anyone who knows the both of them well enough could give you a complicated way to differentiate them, the one those of us who don't care enough use is their eye color. Lorcan has these cold, icy blue orbs while the fool standing in front of me is staring back with warm, deep navy ones.

It's slightly paradoxical.

But no one really discusses the irony behind it anymore.

"Well, can you do a speed lap around the pitch, as fast as possible? Right. And...go!" I watched in mild interest as he circled the arena and was back in about forty seconds.

"How was that, Miss Captain?" he drawled, lazily hovering higher and higher over the verdant lawn.

"Not bad," she muttered, scribbling down his time. "I'm going to throw a Bludgers at you five times now. You're goal is to hit them at Potter." She gestured to him, standing at the other side of the stadium.

"Yeah, whatever." Scamander replied, flying down to the seats to grab a bat.

"Don't actually hurt him," Cecilia murmured as an afterthought, and released the brown ball at him.

"I'll try."

_Thwack_. Hit one.

"Good."

_Thwack_. Hit two.

"Nice one."

_Thwack_. Hit three.

"Fantastic!"

_Thwack_. Hit four.

"A little more power next time."

"Hey Scamander! Quit beating Bludgers at me!"

"Huh?" Scamander grunted, turning to the sound.

"Lysander, watch out!"

_Thwack_. Ouch.

Was that his _skull_?

I watched motionlessly as the Bludger flew back into Cecilia's arms after unseating Scamander who was consequently plummeting to the ground. Instinctively, I grabbed Cecilia's broom (mine was much too expensive) and chucked it after him. It glided down, speeding up, until it was just an arm's length away. He reached for it, and caught it, just about three yards from the grass. Cecilia was beside him before I could blink.

A murmur went to through the entire remaining crowd; most of the student had dissipated after the first hour. The Gryffindor that was up in the air that moment flew down with alarming speed. I blinked. Whoever it was could give Potter a run for his money.

I blinked again. Oh.

It was Weasley.

I jumped on my own _Lightning 3000 _and blew down to Scamander's form.

Before I could touch down, Weasley and Amaryllis Finnigan were already distressing over him on while Cecilia was having a loud argument with Potter not four feet away.

"Of course it was your fault, Potter. You distracted him while there was a Bludger hurtling to his face!"

"He was sending Bludgers hurtling to _my_ face!"

"You planned this, didn't you? You planned on hurting him, because he's one of the best Beaters we'd had since the Weasley twins!"

"_No_ I didn't plan this, Vane-"

"Then what did you-"

"Would you two shut _up_?" Finnigan snapped. "He's bleeding! Will someone get Madame Pomfrey? I think his cranium is fractured. If Malfoy here hadn't thrown a broom at him, he might not have many bones _not_ broken!"

There was a silence as everyone suddenly realized my presence.

And everyone suddenly realized that egotist boy Scorpius had saved someone's life.

Egotist boy Scorpius _might_ actually have a heart.

Egotist boy Scorpius _might_ actually been a not-so-terrible-person.

The stares were suddenly soft and curious, but also reserved, as if they were eyeing a moody teen girl. And I could see why.

Humiliate one Scamander and then l save the other one from plummeting to his imminent death?

Moody, indeed.

* * *

I spent that evening on my rock. I was supposed to be doing rounds, but I figured Weasley would take over. She did owe me, saving her lover's brother's ass and all.

My rock was really more of a boulder. I found it behind the school once when I was scavenging for a secret passageway to Hogsmeade in the second year. It was quiet and secluded, but not eerily so. I'd always come here to think when something significant happened.

So perched atop my boulder, I tried not to. Think, I mean. It was weird, suddenly being the hero. It was as if this one thing had changed everyone's views of me. It was so sappy. Creepy, too. Like when the bad guy goes good. Except not really.

I looked up at the stars and tried to blank out. To get lost in the nothingness of the void. I'd always loved the night sky for that reason. It was so deep and dark and empty. When I was feeling particularly poetic, I liked to compare it to my soul.

I closed my eyes, not intending to sleep, but just to rest. To stop for a bit.

It was all too much. Even for me.

Speculatively,  
Scorpius Malfoy

o0o0o0o0o0o

Yeah. That last chapter I wrote, chapter six, reaaaally sucked, as I now realize. So I'm sorry about that.

I'm not too fond of this one, either. But the next one is remedial counseling, so it _should_ be better.

Speaking of chapters, I changes all the names to sound more diary-ish.

I don't have much to say now.

Sooo. A review. Would be splendid.

All reviewers get to... let's see... Share Scorpius' boulder? Meh. That's suckish. But whatever.

Reviews are love. As always, ConCrit welcome.


	8. Sunday, September 7

A/N: So school starts soon, and I'm not sure how consistent I'll be until at least November, when my extracurrics die down a bit. So this may be the last chapter for a while, but I swear I'll try my hardest to write in all my spare time and update as much as I can.

Chapter dedicated to **Shuey**, my self-proclaimed 'advisor'. And happy belated to you, too. Jeez, practically _everyone_ I know was born in the summer...

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Dear Man-Journal,

I was standing on top of a cliff, staring down at the jagged rocks, the only things that would be there to break my fall if I slipped even slightly. The sky was a sickly green with the congestion of clouds, and even the air around me had a sour, bitter taste. I stood poised on the highest rock, as still and beautiful as a statue, when I suddenly felt a pair of disembodied hands on my shoulder. And all of a sudden I was falling, falling, falling... the waterlogged clouds pelting raindrops like bullets, each one weighing me down so I would reach the unforgiving rocks even faster. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I clutched desperately at the air, but there was nothing to hold. The only thing I could think to do was hold still and brace for impact...

I woke up from my nightmare, panting, and soaked through my robes in water. My first instinct was that Weasley had sprayed me as revenge, payback for when I did it to her. But when I warily surveyed my surroundings, I found no one in the vicinity. Not one person. I shifted uncomfortably on my bed; it was hard and rough and big, and as I looked down, I realized it wasn't a bed at all.

I had fallen asleep on my boulder.

I heard a crack of thunder, and saw that it had been raining profusely for a long enough time that all the little dents and fissures in my rock were filled with water. Cursing heavily, I slid off of the massive formation and stormed back to the commons. The sky was a dusky blue, so I guessed it was very early in the morning.

I should be in bed right now.

_My_ bed, to be specific.

But for the whoknowshowmanyeth time this week, I woke up on a completely unfamiliar surface.

I'm sensing a pattern here.

* * *

I entered the commons grumpy and cantankerous. But that was completely understandable.

What wasn't understandable, however, was why Weasley was at the top of my stairs, banging incessantly on the door to my dormitory.

"Malfoy! Get the fuck up, already!" she yelled, her voice slightly hoarse from the volume.

"I'm down here, Weasley," I snapped, causing her to start in alarm. "What do you want?" But upon catching sight of me, from my dripping robes and hair to my thoroughly agitated expression, she seemed to forget her former goal. "Stop laughing, Weasley. It's not funny."

"Wha-what h-happened to you?" she gasped through peals of laughter. She bounded down the stairs and examined me as carefully as she could while still stifling giggles.

So great to know I provide entertainment. Really. Would you like me to juggle, too?

"I don't believe that's any of your business, Weasley. Now did you need to tell me something, or were you that desperate to see my face first thing in the morning?"

"Please, Malfoy," she responded, her eyes hitting the ceiling, "I was just here to remind you that we've got detention in about five minutes."

Detention. Oh crap, I had forgotten all about that. My eyes widened, and without even giving Weasley a chance to react, I dashed up to my room to change out of my drenched attire.

"Five minutes!" I heard her call just as I was shutting my door.

Right. Because I really needed another reminder.

* * *

"You're late," McGonagall said icily as Weasley and I skidded into her office at precisely 6:02.

"Sorry," Weasley muttered, but McGonagall was already leading us out into the hallways. After a few moments, she walked us into an empty room. Aside from the door leading to what I assumed was a bathroom and two cushy green bundles in the corner, the entire area was bare, the dim lighting and dust-caked floors giving it all a very eerie, uninhabited look.

"You will be spending 24 hours locked together in this room. This method of mending the rift between Head Boy and Hed Girl has been in use for ages, and it's never ceased to provide results." She paused and stared at us, clearly implying that we were not to break this _fantastic_ tradition. "The bathroom is there, should you need it, and if you ever feel tired, there are a pair of sleeping bags right there. Any questions?"

Sure, I've got a question: Does our suffering give you a sadistic thrill of pleasure?

Do you _want_ for one of us to die in a duel that will most certainly break out the second you leave?

Do you care at all that my back will _definitely_ be shot after a night of laying in a sleeping bag on a cement floor?

But instead of saying any of that, I pursed my lips together and looked to the cobwebbed ceiling.

"Good," McGonagall said, misreading our silence as surrender. "But just in case, there _is_ a anti-curse spell on this room, so jinxes and hexes won't work, and you both are both required to drink this." And with a flick of her wand, a pair of tiny cups flew into the air, each filled with a sunny yellow liquid.

"Calming Concoction," I muttered. McGonagall nodded at me and handed us each one of the shot-glasses. I turned to Weasley and put my lips to the edge of the glass just as she did. We both glared for a second, daring the other to go first, and then simultaneously tipped the contents into our mouths.

It was like drinking hot cocoa on a blustery cold day, or stepping into a cool room in the middle of summer. All I felt was instant relief, a wave of soothing ease crashing over me.

But I _do _have a well-trained potions tongue, and I could taste that something was slightly off. The brew was the tiniest bit colder than it should be, maybe by a degree or two. This was a bit perplexing, considering potions don't get affected by outside temperatures. I glanced at Weasley, who was staring at the old wall clock, willing the little hands to go faster. She obviously didn't sense a problem with the potions. I sighed. It was probably just made by someone inexperienced. Amateurs never get _anything_ right.

"If you get hungry," McGonagall continued, Accio'ing a pair of white porcelain plates into the room," these plates can provide food. Just tap your wand. Now, I must be off, the All Hallows Eve Ball is fast approaching and there's so much planning to do. Have fun, you two." She sent us an uncharacteristically sly smile and fluttered out of the room, still grinning.

The door closed with a heavy bang and there were a few clicks as the lock activated. And then there was silence. Not a comfortable silence, or even really an awkward silence. It was more of a _cold_ silence filled with silent insults and wordless retorts. It was louder than any raucous cacophony could ever be.

"I can't believe this," Weasley said suddenly, her voice soft, but strong, low, but filled to the brim with bitterness. She turned to me, and her eyes were flashing.

"Neither can I," I replied. I walked to the edge of the room and kicked a sleeping bag, watching quietly as it sailed across the floor and landed with an explosion of dust.

"What do you mean, _neither can I_?" she demanded. "You know that this is all your fault, right?"

"It is," I blurted immediately, and then widened my eyes. I didn't mean to say that. I didn't even _think _about saying that. Weasley paused on the other side of the room and looked at me, confused.

"Did you just _agree_ with me? About blaming _you_?" Her face reflected pure increduluity.

"Yes," I said. And again, I halted. The words seemed to have just flown straight out of my mouth, not even taking a detour to inform my brain of where they were headed. I clamped a finger to my lips. "What the hell is going...oh. _Oh._"

"_Oh_? What oh?"

"Stop asking me questions!" I managed to shout, just before more words came tumbling out of my mouth. "The Calming Concoction McGonagall gave us was spiked!"

"Spiked? With what, Malfoy? You aren't making any sense!" I ignored her question (with much difficulty, I might add), and instead shot another of my own.

"Weasley, what's your favorite season?"

"My favorite _season_? Why the- Autumn." As soon as she answered me, she clasped her hand over her mouth. Realization clouded her eyes, and she uncovered her lips just long enough to peep, "I didn't mean to say that."

"Veriteserum," I whispered very softly, but loud enough for Weasley to hear it and let out a little moan. "It must be very strong Veriteserum, it's supposed to be colorless, odorless, and tasteless, but it made the Calming Concoction a bit colder. I should have realized."

"But even if we had known it was spiked beforehand, it's not like we could have _refused _the potion." Weasley bit her lip and ran a hand through her red locks.

"We could have...I dunno, _faked_ drinking it or something," I reasoned.

"Right. Do you really think McGonagall wouldn't have noticed?"

An instantaneous "No" shot out of my mouth before I could fully process her question. I twisted my lips into a scowl. "_Stop asking me questions, goddamnit_."

"No, you know, I don't think I will." Weasley wrinkled her nose and rose from the lump she had collapsed into.

And although her statement was just resentment against being told what to do, a horrendous thought occurred to me. She could ask me anything. _Anything_. And I wouldn't have any choice except to answer her. She could dredge up my innermost secrets and then reveal them for all the word to laugh at. And that second, I realized that this wasn't a one-way street. I could do all of that to her, too. And she would _have_ to answer me, like it or not.

"Have you ever failed a class?" I asked suddenly, mischief glinting in my eyes. I knew the one thing Weasley prized beyond all reason was her inherited Granger knowledge. I knew she would much rather stab herself under her fingernails than admit to anyone, especially me, that she had an academic weak point.

"Yes," she replied quickly, before she had completely registered that I had asked her a question. When she finally realized this, she looked at me, _glared_ at me with a venomous combination of disgust, fury, and horror. "_Malfoy_! I can't believe you just-"

"Which class?" I interrupted quickly, before she could find the time to ask a question of her own, although I knew this was inevitable.

"Divination," she spat, her complexion reddening with anger. "Have _you_ ever failed a class?"

"_No_, Weasley, I haven't."

"Liar."

"Right. Because that's what _Veriteserum_ does."

"Ugh, fine. Have you-"

"No no, Weasley. I believe it's _my_ turn-"

"I wasn't under the impression we were playing a game, Malfoy" Weasley snapped. We were slowly circling another, dancing along an invisible tightrope as we shot maligning questions like bullets and unwillingly bled answers to the ones that managed to hit us.

"Well, we are, _Weasley_." I tapped my finger on my chin pseudo-thoughtfully,"Have you ever had a real boyfriend?"

"_Yes_, I have, actually." I frowned. That didn't dig up any dirt. I opened my mouth to shoot something else, but Weasley shushed me. "My turn, remember? You know about Lorcan. Who's _your_ girl of the moment?"

"_No one_, at the moment." I said smugly, and then as an afterthought that would surely send steam shooting out her nostrils, I added, "But Amaryllis Finnigan has been looking very fine lately."

"She wouldn't give you the time of day," Weasley countered, narrowing her eyes slightly. We had stopped moving now, and neither of us was crouched down in a semi-defensive stance. If there was a muted recording of this, it would look like two people having a normal conversation. _Unmuted_, however...

"There is no human girl on the face of the _Earth_ who wouldn't give me the time of day. Have you even _seen _me?" I ran a hand through my platinum tresses and winked. Weasley rolled her eyes, but her face flushed the slightest bit, giving her away.

"_I_ wouldn't give you the time of day."

"I said _human_, Weasley."

"Funny, coming from the _robot_." We glared for a few seconds at each other. And then the strangest thing happened.

Stranger than finding out my father was an ex-Death Eater.

Stranger than finding out that Weasley was Head Girl this year.

Stranger than accidentally saving some bloke's life

I started _laughing_.

Yes, and the _strangest _part was that it wasn't mocking laughter or evil laughter, or even sadistic laughter. It was genuine, from-the-heart, ha-ha-ha laughter. For about three seconds Weasley stared at me in disbelief. And then she started laughing, too.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn't Veriteserum. Maybe the Calming Concoction was actually spiked with a tablespoon of the Galimaufry of Giddiness. Maybe we were all losing our minds.

I mean _really_. Scorpius Malfoy and Rose Weasley laughing hysterically? _Together_?

I mean, hell, I didn't even know _why_ we were laughing.

When after an obscenely long amount of time had passed, and the snorts had subsided, Weasley and I looked at each other. I crinkled my eyebrows, not sure of what had happened. And then I remembered something.

"Do you really think I'm a _robot_?" I recalled, bemused. I mean, I could see the whole cold-hearted and callous part, but I had emotions. Really.

"Well, yeah, Malfoy. You're like, icy and untouchable. I mean, before now, I don't think I'd ever seen you laugh before," Weasley explained. I mulled this over in my head. I supposed that could be true, to her. I looked at Weasley, and I saw that she seemed a little more relaxed, her eyes a little softer. She still seemed a bit guarded though, as if she expected me to take advantage of the situation and attack her.

"It's my turn, Weasley," I said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled around us. Weasley visibly relaxed a little more.

"Okay," she said, turning to me and shifting herself slightly on the floor.

"Um. What's your Patronus?" Weasley smiled vaguely and flicked her wand. A small, silvery, pug-faced cat slunk out of it and rounded the room before disappearing. "Yours?"

I flicked my wand and a tiny creature scuttled out. Weasley stared at it for a good two minuted before snickering. "A _lobster_?"

"That's a scorpion!"

"Oh, wow. That's _real_ original."

"Why? Who else have you seen with a scorpion Patronus?"

"No one. It's just... Scorpius... _scorpion_..."

"Okay, okay. Fine. Subject change. Why exactly do you like Lorcan Scamander?" I watched her intently, because for some inane reason, I actually cared.

"Well," she began, he cheeks tinging magenta, "I've known him forever. My parents were good friends with his mother. I was there when he stopped being skinny and gawky and started being tall and buff. He's always been really sweet and quiet and... when I realized I liked him more than as just a sand-box buddy... It's complicated, I suppose." She looked away for a moment, embarrassed. "Why'd you save Lysander the other day?"

"Instinct," I said automatically, surprising myself by beating the Veriteserum to it. That was my default answer whenever I got attacked by Scorpius fan-girls who pelted me with _why-did-you-save-a-guy-you-didn't-like_s and _wow-you're-such-a-hero_s. "I didn't mean to, honestly. I just saw him falling and I threw the broom."

"Well. I'd never thought I'd ever say this, but maybe you _do_ have a good bone in your body." I scrunched up my nose. I didn't like people making me out to be a saint.

"Sure, Weasley. But it's hidden under layers and layers of hard-core muscle." Cue laughter. "Why'd you ask me that, though? I didn't think you'd care, as long as he was safe and sound. The reason really doesn't matter."

"I was curious, I guess."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Weasley. Curiosity killed the cat." That got a soft chuckle.

"Wow," she managed after some time. "I never thought this stupid remedial counseling thing would be... _beneficial_. I thought we'd leave hating each other more than ever."

"We will. This... _tolerance _we've established here is temporary. Just for now. Safe ground for a while. Because, Weasley. I don't _want_ to like you. It's against all ethics. It's just not right."

"Agreed. I don't want to be friends with you either. We're walking out of here completely normal. Besides, I could bear to see McGonagall be all smug if this worked on us. What do you think?"

I paused. It took me a few minutes to realize the significance of my hesitation.

"Weasley, the Veriteserum's worn off!" I shouted, completely shocked. Did they only think to give an hour's dose?

"Really?" Weasley smiled, but something in her eyes darkened. I could tell she was enjoying our little... moment. It was a refreshing change, even for me. I sighed, and the lone good bone in my body seemed to want to make a reappearance. I looked at Weasley square in the eye.

"It's your turn, now." And I swear, that smile could have lit up the entire castle.

Bemusedly Yours,  
Scorpius Malfoy

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Don't take this and think that they're going to be biffers now. No. They're sticking to they're word and despising each other the second the clock hits 6:00 AM again.

But here starts the smallest hints of romance, I should say.

I think this chapter rushed a bit. Sorry.

I'm running out of people to dedicate these chapters to, so if anyone is interested, just tell me. ;)

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed. Especially the long, rambly ones. I love long reviews. But...for the people who've written long, winding reviews telling me how much they **_don't_** want to review... well, um, let's just say that a 'great story' or 'suckish story' would have sufficed. ;)

Reviews are love. So all reviews will get a big... um... a big... :P

All reviewers will get a virtual high-five. With M&Ms. Fair enough? :)


	9. Wednesday, September 10

A/N: No School today! I love them Jews. :)

M'kay. As some of you might now, I was recently plagiarized by this Clique-author named SilverSpangled. And so...

This chapter is dedicated to **To everyone who defended my story**. It's so nice that someone would care enough to defend my fic. :) And UPDATE: SS fessed up and is taking her story down. Thanks! :)

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

True to our word, the moment the second hand on the clock hit 6:00 AM on Monday, the laughs and tentative smiles were immediately turned off. The air had immediately transformed into one of stiffness and uncomfortable neutrality, and although we were glaring at each other when the door opened, McGonagall gave us both knowing smiles.

"How are you two?" she asked us, raising her eyebrows to indicate that she wasn't buying our act. I panicked a little and deepened by frown.

"Fabulous," I responded through clenched teeth. Weasley gave me a sarcastic smile for effect.

"Really. Nothing like spending the day and night with the guy you absolutely hate."

McGonagall gave us both a weary look as we exited the room and swept through the hallways. She led us back to her office, and signaled for us to both sit on the leather armchairs.

"Have you two mended your rift?"she asked, folding her hands and looking at us like we were taking a survey that she had given out countless times before.

"No." Weasley and I said flatly.

"Mhmm. Do you feel closer to any degree?"

"Sure. A negative one."

"Do you think another dose of remedial counseling is in order?"

Weasley and I exchanged a wary glance. "Absolutely not, Professor," I said.

"I see," McGonagall murmured softly, but her eyes still looked omniscient, as though she knew something that we didn't know she knew. It was creepy, let me tell you. "Anything you'd like to add, Miss Weasley?"

"Yes, actually." Weasley responded, folding her arms across her chest defiantly. I raised my eyebrows. "Was the Veriteserum _really_ necessary?"

Of course it was. It's what got us to temporarily 'mend our rift' in the first place. But I could tell that she was putting up a magnificent act, pretending like we hadn't done anything productive during the entire twenty-four hour period.

"Indeed, it was. It unifies the two Heads for a period of time while they both hate the Headmaster or Headmistress that spiked it in the first place." Pause. "Is that all?" McGonagall continued to stare down Weasley, who now looked rather deflated.

"That's all," she replied in a meek little voice.

"Alright then. Mister Malfoy, you are free to go. Miss Weasley, if you could just stay for an extra moment; there is something I need to discuss with you about your Transfiguration essay..."

McGonagall disappeared behind the mountains of paperwork on her desk as she looked for whatever it was that she was looking for. I slowly got up and made my way to the door. Before exiting, though, I looked back. Weasley was looking at me curiously, a thoughtful look on her face. I offered her a small smile, and winked before I disappeared through the entrance.

So maybe we're closer to _some_ degree.

* * *

And so it went for the next two days. Weasley and I had this underlying layer of politeness. The commons were no longer dead silent, and midnight rounds weren't an escape from each other any more. Sure, we still kept up the nasty and hating pretense in public, but it was just that.

A pretense.

I would most definitely not go as far as to say we were friends now, or even acquaintances. We were more like two people that had know each other for ages but never cared enough to carry a conversation. In other words, the venom had evaporated, and we were surrounded by a neutral air, biding time until something happened to make us hate each other again.

Luckily, we barely had to wait at all.

That Wednesday morning, the ceiling of the Great Hall was sunny and bright and an obnoxiously perfect shade of blue. False harbinger, couldn't you tell? As students milled in for breakfast, there was this excited buzz going around. When most of the seats were filled, and the sounds of chewing and munching and utensils scraping against plates had engulfed a good portion of the room, McGonagall stood up from her little podium at the center of the teachers' table and clinked a spoon to her goblet.

"Good morning students," she said in an all-too-cheerful-for-mornings voice, " A few announcements. I have been asked by our Caretaker, Mister Goyle, to inform the entire student body of the blanket ban on any products from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Anyone found in possession of them will be punished accordingly. Now. As you may or may not know, the All Hallows Eve Ball is approaching sometime soon." There was an explosion of giggles from the female crowd occupying the Slytherin table. And every other table. I couldn't help but smile as I overheard an argument over who got to ask me.

"God," I whispered to Zabini, who was seated at my left. "Girls these days are just so desperate to get a slice of me, aren't they?" Zabini gave me a tight smile and nodded his head.

"It's nothing to be surprised about," he whispered back, and then turned back to McGonagall.

Huh. Usually Zabini's complements are longer... more preach-y and epic-speech sounding. I brushed it off. It was nothing to get worked up over...

"The ball will take place on the 31st of October at 7:00 PM and is open to all students in the fifth year and up. It is, as custom, a masquerade ball, so both dress robes and appropriate masks are required. I hope to see many of you in attendance." She smiled at us for a split second and then turned to make her way back to her seat.

There was about a solid six seconds of silence, before a cacophony of excited chatter swallowed up the room. A gaggle of fifth years made their way to the Slytherin table. Their eyes raked the occupants until, of course, they landed on me.

The tallest one, a girl with reddish hair and porcelain oriental features spoke up first. "Hi, um, Scorpius. I'm, uh... I'm A-Amande. I was kindasorta wondering if... if..."

"If?" I prompted snappishly. Although I knew the hordes of lovestruck underclassmen were inevitable with my dashing looks, I had little patience for them.

"Ifyouwouldmaybewanttogototheballwithme?" she blurted, her translucently pale skin hosting a blush most magnificent.

"I don't think so," I responded coolly, examining my fingernails. I looked up, raising my eyebrows at her, the look itself asking if she honestly thought she'd had a chance. Mortified, Amande fled back to the Ravenclaw table. Her posse made haste to follow, except one girl, the one who had been behind her. She paused, and looked back, focusing her mud-brown eyes on my face.

"How about me?" she asked, apparently drawing confidence from her friend's rejection. I gave her a weary look.

"I wouldn't bet on it." She looked at me for a second, and then shrugged, sending her white-blond curls _boing-boinging_ against her shoulders.

"I had to try," she sing-songed, completely unaffected by my rejection, and skipped back to her friend's side. It amused me how quickly I could change the polarization of friendships.

I turned to observe the Gryffindor table. Potter couldn't _possibly_ have gotten more than two date requests in the thirty seconds since McGonagall sat down, could he? I craned my neck, and saw him talking to the same brown-eyed-blond-haired girl who stood before me not a half-minute ago. I saw her walk away again, the same look of mild interest on her face as when she had walked away from me. I was just about to turn away when I saw Lysander amble over to the table.

I blinked, confused. Lysander was still confined to the white-washed realms of the Hospital Wing. He wasn't allowed out for another week. And then, _duh_, I realized it wasn't Lysander at all.

It was Lorcan, the goody-two-shoes-which-I'll-just-go-and-donate-to-charity and super nature freak extraordinaire.

But what could _he _possibly need from the Gryffindors? He hadn't so much as _approached _their side of the Great Hall since the The Great Weasley Incident a few days ago.

But at the Gryffindor table he was. But why was he in the genral vicinity of Weasley in the first place?

And why was he walking to her? And why was he talking to her? And why was she turning a light shade of pink? And why were Potter and Amaryllis Finnigan exchanging knowing looks? And why did Weasley just nod yes and why, oh, why did he just walk away with a smile on his face that looked so goddamn _pleased_?

In a rapid succession of things clicking together in my mind, the aforementioned events fitting together like pieces of a puzzle, links of a chain, I understood. Lorcan had gotten himself a date to the Ball.

_With Weasley._

For reasons unknown to even me, this made my blood boil. I think it was because, even though we were on okay terms now, I had worked so fucking hard to cause Weasley Lorcan-related misery before and he just goes and undoes this by _asking her to the ball_. It hasn't been even five minutes since McGonagall's sat down and the entire student body's already been plunged into the intense drama of dates and dresses, of masks and misery.

So Lorcan was going to play nice, now was he?

And being a very bloodthirsty person by nature, there was but one thing on my mind: revenge.

Looking back on this, it makes absolutely _no_ sense whatsoever. So Lorcan asked Weasley to the All Hallow's Eve Ball. How the hell does that affect me? Answer: it doesn't.

Why should I be mad about this? Answer: I shouldn't.

Why would I even be getting revenge? Who would I be getting it on, Lorcan or Weasley? _How_ would I get it?

I supposed that it was because Weasley had gotten her way after all that planning to get back at her. The Great Weasley Debacle had been undone. Any misery I had inflicted, erased. The revenge I had gotten on her for getting revenge on me for getting revenge on her for being such a controlling witch-with-a-capital-B had disappeared. And that left me with a score to settle.

Does this make sense to you, dearest imaginary reader? Because to me, it feels like I'm trying to justify my wanting to just get some tense Weasley-Malfoy drama back into the picture.

Because in essence, if you want to go all psychotherapeutical on me, that's probably what you'd discover. That our temporary truce had left me hungry for more of our hatred. Buddy-buddy was boring. Bloodthirsty cutthroatness? That, dear observer, that is not.

So no, it wasn't really revenge. It was igniting the fire. Igniting the fire like the social pyromaniac I am.

And what better to ignite the fire than to burn down her friendships? And isn't the most cliche way to get mad is if your best friend started dating your forever-foe?

As the students rose and started milling out of the doors, all abuzz with plans for the ball, my eyes raked the Gryffindors for a certain strawberry-blond best-friend.

Igniting the fire? Please. I'm burning the whole house down.

Vengefully Yours,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

Huh. I rather liked the ending of that. But I am sorry about how short it is. It just barely squeaked past 2K.

Now, I'm obliged to apologize for not updating. But in all honesty, I'm surprised I got anything out before November.

So. Happy Rosh Hashannah (spelling?) to all those Jews out there.

Leave me a celebratory review? Anyone who does will be presented with a virtual basket of virtual Hershey's kisses.

Because, you know, chocolate makes the world go 'round and all that. ;)


	10. Thursday, September 11

A/N: Hey chicas. It's, um, been a while. Hopefully you haven't all deserted me? *hopeful face*

But I wasn't completely defunct the past two months. I wrote a Scorose romangst one-shot that would be cool and awesome to check out. So, er..., go on. Check it out. It's called _What Could Have Been_.

And without further ado, Chapter 10, with deddy-cations to the **YB-loving kilogram Chiquita**. ;) You are allowed to review, you know.

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

If you were to ask me how amazingly awesome and hot and great I felt right now, on a one to ten scale, my answer would be somewhere in the millions. Because I not only managed to snag the girl I had set my eyes on, but I had managed to catch the eyes of another, extremely _taken _girl, all while being my charming, irresistible self.

You see, this morning...

The library was warm and rosy in the glow of the marble-edged fireplace. The atmosphere was so cozy when compared to the damp, icky fog of the world outside. I slipped in and perched down on a brown chintz armchair and opened the latest edition of _Warlock Wives_. Even though _Warlock Wives_ was marketed to women, I always read it. It gave me a slightly sneaky feeling, like I was reading someone else's diary.

It was still early when I stood up to stretch a little, a solid three or four hours before my first class was set to start, and I felt strangely anticipatory, as if there was something exciting that was about to happen today, but I couldn't remember what. After melting back into the chair, I managed to maintain my inner sanctuary until I got to the article titled _'How to Please Your Man: The Do's, The Don'ts, and the Definetely's'. _I was just contemplating how high my nausea level would be if I decided to read this when the door softly creaked open.

Amaryllis Finnigan entered sleepily, an Advanced Charms book tucked under one arm and parchment clutched in the other. She shuffled in, yawning, and didn't seem to realize me at all until she had set her things down on the table and just so happened to look up.

She gave out a little yelp, which cued my chuckles, and then walked towards me, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Relax, Finnigan" I laughed, "I'm not much in a mood to argue with you."

"It's your lucky day," she mumbled, "'Cause neither am I."

"What're you doing here, anyways?" I asked," It's six o'clock AM on a Thursday morning."

"I could say the same for you," she countered, lazily cocking an eyebrow as she glanced at the cover of the magazine I was holding. "Warlock Wives, Malfoy? I had never pegged you as the fruity type..."

"Ha ha, Finnigan. Actually, my father sends me advance copies of all the issues so I can proofread them," I answered smoothly. This was, of course, mostly a lie. He did send me advance copies, but only because he knew I got some strange pleasure from reading them.

"Whatever," she said, and she walked over behind me, peering at the article over my shoulder. "I'm hiding from Rose, actually. All she's talked about in the last 24 hours is her and Lorcan, Lorcan, Lorcan. It's sickening and repulsive. Do you have an article in there about how to get someone like that to shut up? Wait, what the hell are you _reading_? '_How to Please Your Man: The Do's, The Don'ts, and The Definetely's... Always try to physically look up to your man. It makes him feel big and strong and macho. Let him do things for you; it'll make him feel as though he were rescuing you',"_ she read. "This is crap."

"How would you know, Finnigan? Are you secretly a man?" I asked testily.

"Of course not!" she exclaimed, her cheeks staining pink. "But really, are you trying to tell me that if I put myself in a lower position than you and look up, you'll suddenly want to do me?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," I responded crisply. She gave me a sarcastic look and then rounded the chair so she was in front of me and then plopped herself down on the floor. She tilted her head up slightly and glanced at me through her thick lashes.

"Oh, _Scorpius_," she said in a pseudo-husky swoon, "I love you so much. Take me somewhere private..."

And then I remembered why I had felt so strangely excited this morning. I was going to ask Finnigan to the ball today, so her friendship with Weasley would suffer. I couldn't believe I had forgotten my genius plan already. I grinned softly to myself and looked down at the cynical-faced girl below me.

"How about the All Hallow's Eve Ball?" I suggested, trying to look as genuine as possible.

"Funny, Malfoy" Finnigan said, rolling her celery-colored eyes and hoisting herself up.

"Believe it or not, _Miri_," I said, applying the nickname I knew many Gryffindors used with her," I am actually being dead serious."

"Well, I _don't_ believe it, _Scorp_," she snapped back, turning to walk over to her Charms textbook.

"And why not?" I asked, getting up and following her to her table.

"Because, you hate me, remember?" Finnigan responded calmly, as if she was talking about a type of candy rather than _herself_.

"No, I hate _Weasley_. You, I'm perfectly fine with. Actually, _more _than fine with. I'm serious, Amaryllis, go to the ball with me. Think about how you won't have to listen to Weasley talk about Lorcan all day. Think of all the girls who'll be jealous of you. Do you even know how many people I've rejected in the past day?"

"You're serious." she concluded with furrowed eyebrows. She searched my eyes briefly, as if I might be hiding something in them and then sighed. "Why me?"

"Because. You and Weasley are the only girls in the entire fucking school who haven't shown any interest in me romantically, and with Weasley, I'm fine with that. But you are _so _much better. You're smarter, and prettier, and you are so much more tolerable..." I couldn't hold back a wince as I realized how thick I was laying it on. But Finnigan didn't seem to realize. She was instead biting her lower lip and looking off into space, contemplating all the crap I had just fed her.

"Okay," she conceded finally. "I'll go to the ball with you."

"Great, " I grinned, my euphoria of doing something that was going to eat away at Weasley canceling out the guilt that I was in fact _using _Finnigan, who was really kind of cool.

But you know how it is. Once a bad-ass, always a bad-ass.

* * *

Surprisingly, the news hadn't circulated at all, because by lunch, hordes of girls were still pelting me with date requests. I told them all no, that I was already taking someone, but I wouldn't say who. I kind of wanted to be the one to break the news to Weasley, so I didn't want her to hear about it first through a third or fourth party correspondent.

"Hey Zabini," I called during lunch, in between alternate bites of soup and baked potatoes. He didn't turn, as he was already occupied, talking to this random brunette Ravenclaw girl with a chest so ginormous that it seemed to engulf her entire torso. She was giggling a lot and touching his arm quite frequently.

I frowned. What a strange development _this _was. Zabini never got his own girls. All of the ones he had ever dated (who could all be counted on one pair of hands) were ones who needed consolations from _my_ harsh _no_s. All of them were _my_ used tissues, if you will. I had never seen him with someone who hadn''t looked at me, first. Of course, she was probably only talking to him to get closer to me. I sighed. Beauty was such a massive burden, sometimes.

"Zabini!" I called again, once the Ravenclaw had left with a parting giggle and arm-touch. He turned and smiled when he saw me, making his way down to me slowly.

"Scorpius! That girl I was just talking to, Vanessa Smelting, I think she wants to go to the ball with me! Couldn't you tell? She was flirting with m-,"

"Yeah, I saw it," I cut him off. His eyebrows laced together when I stopped him, but he didn't say anything about it. There was a long pause.

"Well? Was there something you needed to tell me, Scorpius?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. I cocked my head to the side for a moment, confused. I could have sworn I detected a _tone _in that... but I must have been imagining it, for Zabini would never _dare_ to show me contempt. I shook my head, and the notion out of it.

"Yes, actually. I've chosen a date for the All Hallow's Eve Ball."

"Really." he responded, but did not press me for details.

"It's Amaryllis Finnigan." I offered, but he only flattened his lips into a thin line and shrugged his shoulders. This was so strange. Zabini was actually _pissed_.... at _me_.

"Fine, Zabini," I sighed, "I'll bite. Tell me about Vanessa." Zabini smiled a little.

"She's a Ravenclaw sixth-year and she's absolutely brilliant. We were discussing non-verbal spells, and she's just so funny."

Non-verbal spells, eh? Makes sense, considering how _physical_ she was being with him.

"Good Luck with her, mate," I told Zabini, smiling slightly. His standing up to me had actually garnered him a new level of respect.

"And you with Amaryllis," he grinned, sliding onto the bench next to me.

"Luck has nothing to do with it," I murmured under my breath.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

We munched in silence for a while until I spotted Weasley stroll in with her new beau. She was leaning on the inside of his shoulder, and his arm was slung around around her in a very pimp-tastic fashion. Happiness seemed to emanate from within her, and it actually showed. Her hair seemed redder and shinier today, her eyes bluer and her skin smoother.

In other words, she looked like a girl does the day after her first sextra-curricular, and having deflowered many girls in my years, I know the symptoms by heart. But this, of course, was not possible, as I could still see Lorcan's infamous purity ring glinting against his thumb.

I frowned for a monent. _I _had never made a girl glow like that without first taking her to bed. What could Lorcan possibly be doing to make her that... happy?

_Well, she's not going to be happy for long_, a teeny voice in the back of my head reminded me. I grinned with a grim sense of satisfaction.

A few moments later, Potter trailed in, his eyes hollow and his hair disheveled. It took me a few seconds to realize what was missing: Penelope Thomas was not attached to him by the hand, shoulder, or lip. I was just about to make a comment about this to Zabini, when I saw her.

She pranced in, a shiny orb of glossy black curls, perfectly dark skin, and sparkling cocoa eyes. It didn't take a genious to figure out who did the dumping in this equation. I was actually very amused.

That is, until I saw her look at me, turn, and head right towards my table.

"Hey, Scorpius," she said with a tinkling laugh.

"Penelope," I acknowledged.

"How are you?"

"I dunno. You tell me."

"Gorgeous, of course," she whispered, running one of her long, elegant fingers up my arm.

"Yeah."

"Actually, Scorpius, I wanted to talk to you about something..." Considering how flirtatious she was being, I should have realized what that _something_ was then and there, but I remained oblivious.

"Okay..."

"I was wondering if you would take me to the All Hallow's Eve Ball?" she whispered in a voice so seductive that a man weaker than I would have no choice but to succumb, available or not.

But it just now occured to me that Albus was still... _there_. He was, like it or not, her ex, and I don't _do_ leftovers. Literally _or_ metaphorically.

"Potter-," I started, but she pressed a finger to my lips.

"Don't worry about him, I dumped him yesterday." She ventured a glance in his direction and there he was, stabbing limply at a plate of something brown and wholly unappetizing-looking.

"You dumped him...yesterday?"

"For _you_, Scorpius. I was using him to make you jealous and now, he's served his purpose. I don't need him anymore." What did I tell you? Did I or did I not call that, like a _week_ ago?

I believe I did.

I looked back at Penelope, who was standing next to me, looking as graceful and sexy as womanly possible. She was so bitchy and self-centered... we really _would_ have made a marvelous match.

"Penelope," I began in a soft voice, knowing how easily an ego like hers would bruise, "I already have a date."

She looked at me blankly, and then stepped back, as if she had been shoved. "Who?"

"I can't tell you that right now, but you'll find out soon enough," I said, and pushing my plate away, I got up and exited the Great Hall.

* * *

"Malfoy!" Weasley singsonged in greeting as she sashayed into the Head's common room. I was curled up next to the flickering fire in my leather armchair, reading about the Goblin Revolution of 1210. I looked up and raised my eyebrows as I watched her waltz herself across the room.

"Don't sing my name," I responded, lowering my eyes back to the text.

"I'm sorry; I'm just so happy! Lorcan is the best boyfriend ever!"

"Oh, so he's your boyfriend now?" I said teasingly, feeling a little nostalgic already at the fact that our friendliness will have dissipated into thin air by tomorrow.

"Yes, I didn't tell you?" she asked, perching on the edge of the sofa. I held up my hand.

"I am not a girl. I don't want to hear the juicy details." I retched a little at the possibility of there _being_ juicy details.

"The details aren't juicy, per se..." she answered, her cheeks reddening into the familiar Weasley Blush. I wrinkled my nose, and something inside me grew a little restless. I really didn't want to hear about her new lover. It made me feel almost... inadequate.

I know it sounds crazy, but I think it's just the effect he had on her. I mean, I'm positive I've never made a girl sing to the guy she is supposed to hate.

I mean, that's like, _magic_.

Maybe it _is _magic. I glanced over at Weasley for a second to see if she looked like she was under the influence of an Imperius, but she showed no signs.

"Well, I'm off to bed," Weasley smiled, and repeated with a girlish squeal, "I'm just so _happy_!"

"You won't be for long," I called back as she bounded up the stairs, but she was to wrapped up in her euphoria to hear me.

I smiled to myself. After all, the higher you are, the harder it hurts.

Sadistically Yours,  
Scorpius

0o0o0o0o0o0

Sorry there wasn't much Rose in this chapter; she was... er, a bit preoccupied...

:)

Drop me a review. All reviewers will be awarded with a virtual biscuit, in the spirit of the Thanksgiving that approaches.

Happy Turkey Day!


	11. Friday, September 12

A/N: I would have gotten this out earlier, but I lost my computer in a cornfield. ;)

Dedicated to **Cela Fille**, cuz she be a cool-ass writa' from da clique 'hood. Aaaand let's just pretend I didn't say that. :)

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

I feel bad.

Like, I honest-to-Merlin, swear-on-Weasley's-life, feel bad for someone. The effect of one of my actions on someone else is actually evoking sympathy and pity in me.

Are you buying this yet?

I found out that the more time I spend with Amaryllis Finnigan, the better I get to know her, and in turn, the nastier I feel for completely using her.

Because, really. Amaryllis is cool. And what I'm doing to her? That is _not_.

Thar's not to say I'm going to stop anytime soon, or anytime _ever_.

But it's the thought that counts, right?

Luckily, I've had plenty to keep me distracted. The first Quidditch match of the season is next Saturday, and it's going to be between Slytherin and Gryffindor, which everybody knows is the most epic match of the entire year. Needless to say, being the star seeker, the pressure is _on_. Not that I would ever let them down. I mean, win or not, my mere presence is enough to lift any one's mood.

That is, anyone except Potter.

_Yeah_, he found out Penelope dumped him for me. And _yeah_, now he hates me more than ever before.

Every time I see him in the halls, he sends me murderous glares and venom-laced scowls, but he has yet to actually do something about it. I mean, really. The whole 'If looks could kill...' saying is just an adage; it's not _actually_ going to _work_. Although I'm not exactly complaining.

Penelope's also been kind of distant. Which is really _really_ odd, because Penelope is _never_ distant. She's the exact opposite. I mean, if you're a guy, her chest will be in your face before you can inform her that you already _have_ a girlfriend. And once it's there, your girlfriend's the _last_ thing on your mind.

Which is why her aloof disposition is so uncharacteristic of her. She seems to have garnered a new pruditude, too, because now, her flippy little skirts extend a full _sixteen centimeters_ below her waist and her cleavage crack can finally be measured in inches instead of feet.

As for Weasley and Scamander.... well, unfortunately, the latter died.

Yeah, you see, he was expelled for being such a douche bag, and then he was so devastated that he went and flung himself off the Millennium Bridge.

_If only._

No, Weasley and Scamander are still alive, and they're still the school's most sickening pure couple, and they still walk to classes holding eachothers' hands and grinning at each other sloppily, like they'd rather eskimo-kiss than actually get some. Which is probably true. It's so sugar-sweet that I can actually feel cavities forming as I look at them. He's the epitome of the 'mama's boy- boyfriend'. I just want to scream at him to grope her ass or something, _please_.

But we all know that that's not happening any time soon. I mean, he's got himself a personal banner that screams his sexual status to anyone and everyone. I mean, really; a _purity_ ring? 'Cause the first thing a _normal_ virgin wants to do is go and _publicise_ the fact.

But whatever.

Weasley and I; our relationship is still sparkly and clean and rainbow-birthing. But that's 'cause I have yet to tell her about Amaryllis' new beau.

"Scorpius!" I heard all of a sudden as I was in the halls, strolling to Potions. I snapped my head down out of the clouds and acknowledged the reverie-killer.

"Hey, baby," I whispered once I had seen that it was Amaryllis gliding along next to me. I touched the small of her back in greeting. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at my womanizing, but said nothing of it.

"Scorp," she blurted in a low tone, " I have to tell Rose." Ah. Finally. The moment of truth. In all honesty, I'm surprised she waited this long.

"Actually, _I_ want to tell Rose." I admitted softly, carefully, so Amaryllis wouldn't suspect anything. She didn't seem to, merely raising a surprised eyebrow and then shrugging.

"Good luck with that," she said in an undertone, biting her lip as we entered the drafty dungeon and split to our respective sides of the room.

The NEWTS-level Potions class was relatively small, as it was extremely difficult to get the prerequisite Outstanding. The seating was split up by Houses, myself and the two other Slytherins sitting by the back; Amaryllis, Weasley, Potter, and a scrawny Gryffindor girl near Professor Goldstein's desk; a lonesome Hufflepuff duo by the entrance; and the area by the supply closet inhabited by Penelope (surprising, I know - most everyone thinks she slept with her OWLs proctor after the exam) and her friend.

There was a simmering cauldron in the center of the room, and it was emitting a web of intricate spirals. As I sat down, a faint but delicious aroma of sugar, jasmine, and coconut engulfed me, completely seducing my senses. I smiled vaguely as I caught Weasley inhaling the air surrounding her with a passionate fervor.

Professor Goldstein emerged from her office and perched on the edge of her desk, waiting until the quiet chatter had subsided.

"Who can tell me what this is?" she asked in her startlingly soft-pitched voice, as she gestured to the steaming cauldron. Weasley's hand flew up at exactly the same time as mine (only I managed to do it with out looking like a complete kiss-ass). "Mister Malfoy?"

"It's Amortentia, the strongest love potion ever invented." I responded in my usual too-cool-to-care demeanor.

"Very good, five points for Slytherin. Now, who can tell me some of the characteristics of this potion? Miss Weasley?"

"It releases complex spirals laced with scents that are uniquely attractive to each person who smells it," she recited, sounding, as always, like she had just recently swallowed a textbook.

"Excellent, Miss Weasley; take five points for Gryffindor," Professor Goldstein nodded, "Now. We will be brewing Amortentia for the following two weeks. I advise you to be very careful with this, as Amortentia can be considered one of the most powerful and dangerous potions ever concocted. It causes not love, but an uncontrollable infatuation, with can many times lead to depression or suicide. The directions can be found on page 266 of you textbooks. You may begin." She nodded at us and retreated back into her room with a half-hearted 'I'll be here if you need me...'

I flipped to page 266 of my textbook, which was really unnecessary considering I had already brewed Amortentia twice before. I hoisted myself up to the supply closet to find the first ingredient, crushed skin of a Boomslang. Just as I got to the closet and reached for the bottle, Amaryllis managed to slip between my arms and grab it, throwing me a coy wink. A sudden idea struck me, and I wrapped my arms around her waist and laid a kiss on her head. It was so quick that you would have to be purposely watching the area to see it, and I was pretty sure someone was.

There was an abrupt clatter of a dropped wand on the bare cement floor. I pivoted to Weasley, _positive_ it was her, but she seemed to be too busy measuring out something in a pair of blown-glass vials. I furrowed my eyebrows and scanned the room for any signs that someone _else_ has seen us.

And there Penelope stood, wand on the floor, arms crossed, eyes throwing frenzied glances between me and Amaryllis, and mouth blatantly agape. For a few seconds, her lips only parted and closed wordlessly, as she tried to come up with something to say.

"_What?!_" she finally managed to screech, so loudly that whatever ingredient Weasley was measuring out spilled into her cauldron with a loud splash. She looked up to Penelope, an agitated expression on her face.

"What the hell's your problem, Penelope?" she snapped, quickly pouring in more of the liquid into the cauldron in an effort to salvage her potion.

"What do you mean _my_ problem?" Penelope wailed, ever the drama queen, "How isn't it _yours_?" Amaryllis and I were still stationed at the supply closet. I felt her shift slightly, nervously, and I glanced down at her.

"What the hell are you rambling about now?" Potter barked, massaging his temples.

"How can you be so cool about this, Albus?" the sultry brunette responded tearily, oblivious to his flinch when she said his name. "I thought you despised Scorpius with every fiber of your being?" By now, the entire class was silent, observing this little battle-of-the-exes.

"What does Malfoy have to do with any of this?" retorted Weasley, as Potter seemed to upset to say much else.

"Wait, so you don't know?" Penelope asked, a faint twinkle growing in her eyes. "Well, then, I have to tell you the entire story: A few days ago, I had asked Scorpius to the ball-" Potter shook violently at this, but remained quiet. "-and he had the absolute audacity to say _no_. I was _stunned_, and when I asked him why, he merely told me that he already had a date. But as to _who_ this mystery date was, he wouldn't tell me." Weasley threw me a questioning look at this, but when I remained expressionless, she retrained her attention to Penelope.

"So we fast-forward to today," she continued, all traces of her depression gone as she recounted these last five minutes with a glowing excitement, "I got up to get some crushed Boomslang skin when I see Scorpius already there. I am just about to march up to him, demand he tell me who his mystery date is, when I see him kiss _Amaryllis Finnigan_! Scorpius Malfoy is _with _Amaryllis Finnigan!"

There was a deafening silence as I saw Weasley finally register Amaryllis and I's proximity to each other. Her face went pale white, as she stood up and walked over to us. I could _feel_ the tension rising as she looked us both over carefully. I knew she was going to explode...

Any second now...

"ARE YOU FUCKING MAD?!" she yelled to no one in particular. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"Well..." started Amaryllis.

"We didn't want you to react badly. Don't know _why_ we would think that," I said dryly.

"Of course I'm going to react badly! _My supposed 'worst enemy' just asked out my best friend!_"

"Do you have a problem with that?" I asked coolly, slinging an arm around Amaryllis' shoulders. I watched gleefully as Weasley's complexion grew molten red.

"_Yes!_"

"Why, Weasley? Jealous?" The second I uttered those words, something in this room seemed to change. Amaryllis stiffened under my touch. Potter's head snapped up. Penelope's eyebrows shot up high on her forehead. Weasley's eyes smoldered in their sockets, slowly burning. I sensed that this was the end of our tentative friendship.

"No, you _ass_, I'm not jealous. I just know that Amaryllis can do _so _much better than you," Weasley hissed.

"Shut up about him!" Everyone turned to Amaryllis, who, up until this moment, had been silent. "Rose, I'm going to date whoever the hell I want to date. Don't tell me I can do better than him. He _does_ me just fine, thanks," I'm not exactly sure if Amaryllis meant to say that with an insinuating connotation, but mean to or not, that's how Weasley seemed to take it.

"Christ, Miri! I do _not_ want to hear about Scorpius' sexual prowess!"

"Of course not, Weasley. But everyone else does. Penelope, for one-"

There was a blur of movement, a lightning-fast burst of sound, a flash of light. Somehow, in the span of two milliseconds, Potter and Weasley had their wands pointed at me, Amaryllis had her wand pointed at Weasley, almost _protectively_, and Penelope had her wand pointed at Potter. Slightly dazed, I brought up my wand as well.

There was a clatter of sound behind me. I turned to acknowledge the noise, and nearly rolled my eyes at how _wonderfully_ the timing happened to work out.

It was Professor Goldstein, her glossy dark hair, her porcelain face, her coal-black eyes, all crackling anger.

"Wands down!" she yelled in her whisper-light voice. Not one of us budged.

"I said, wands down!" Still nothing. She started to approach us, her dainty footsteps barely echoing in the dead room.

"My god," I heard Penelope whisper behind me, complete with a flamboyant eye-roll. There was a jet of white light from her wand and Professor Goldstein froze. It took us all a few moments to process what had just happened.

"Penelope!" Weasley gaped, "You just stunned a teacher!"

"That's right," she smirked, raising her wand higher, "and I'm not leaving until we finish this."

We all looked around at each other, realizing that Penelope actually wanted to _duel_. Over _me_. Potter, who was positioned at the receiving-end of Penelope's line-of-fire raised his wand next. Weasley picked hers up again, pointing it at Amaryllis, who at the same time pointed hers at Weasley.

And I stood in the center, literally and metaphorically, and glanced over at the pairs. It vaguely occured to me that I was completely at fault here. There was ex versus ex; best friend versus best friend. All because I needed to add some more spice into my life. I contemplated feeling guilty, but realized it actually made me feel powerful.

I smiled and raised my wand.

Power-hungrily yours,  
Scorpius Malfoy.

* * *

Cliffie!

I honestly don't know where that last bit came from... I wasn't planning it.

I'll try to get the next chapter up by next Sunday. I actually might be able to do it, 'cause I'm off for two weeks. :D

Hope you people had/are having a nice holiday season?

Attach a bow to your review and send it down. It'll be my Christmas Present. :)


	12. Monday, September 15

A/N: Happy New Year! (and Christmas and Valentines Day. _Wow_ it's been a while)

Anyone who likes my oneshots can check out my latest, _Helpless_, a New-Years themed RoseScorp.

Dedicated to **Little T-Chan** for being the 116th person to Alert this story AND for leaving me an amazingly scrumptious review.

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

The dungeon had been overwhelmed with the screams of various hexes and curses. All the students who weren't involved in the duel had abandoned their potions and were now plastered against the walls.

I glanced at Professor Goldstein's slight form crumpled against the gray cement floor, her jet black hair fanned out in all directions, and her posture frozen. It vaguely occured to me that there was no going back now that a teacher had actually been _stunned_.

"_Aguamenti_!" I cried, pointing my wand at Weasley. A jet of icy water doused her from head to toe, leaving a slick puddle of water on the floor. Cursing, she dried herself, and aimed her wand at my head.

"_Oppugno_!" A swarm of golden canaries appeared out of nowhere, and made a beeline to my face. I ducked, but the birds rounded and came for me again. I conjured up a shield charm and watched as the creatures smashed into it and disappeared, each one leaving behind a small cloud of yellow feathers.

"_Obscuro_!" came Amaryllis's voice and in a milisecond, there was a thick black shawl covering Weasley's eyes.

"What the hell, Miri?" Weasley yelled, clawing at her face, but Amaryllis seemed to have moved on. Standing next to me, she aimed her wand at Potter.

"_Levicorp_-" I started, but Potter cut me off with a nonverbal jet of orange light. I glanced down, and found, miraculously, that my knees seemed to be _backwards_. I stumbled back, scrambling to think of the counterspell.

As I stepped back, Penelope took my place, so now her and Amaryllis were battling Potter. I frowned. Potter was a genius at Defense Against the Dark Arts. He could have the both of them on the floor in a few seconds. I attempted to stand up again, but my new knees collapsed under me once more.

"Miri-" Potter started, almost as if her were about to give her another chance, but Penelope cut him off.

"Save it, lover boy," she cackled, and she aimed her wand meticulously. "_Alohamora_." Everyone blinked.

Penelope had just sent an _unlocking_ spell at a _person_.

She tried to cast a spell that was usually saved for a _door_ on an actual _human being_. Was she really _that _dumb?

And then, as if the universe had to answer our question, there was the crackly metal sound of something unzipping.

That's when everything started to happen really quickly. Potter's pants, which seemed to be the only thing affected by the incantation, fell to his ankles. Noticing this too late, though, he took a step and tripped, sliding on the puddle of water created by my _Aguamenti _spell. His entire body crashed into the nearby cauldron of Amortentia. The pot teetered precariously for a few moments, and then, like it had been pushed, it tipped over, the contents completely emptying over Potter's face. He sputtered for a few moments as he instinctively gulped down all of the potion that had ended up in his mouth, and then lost consciousness, his head lolled to one side and his limbs lax. A few moments after, almost as if adding insult to injury, the cauldron itself rolled off of the desk and landed on Potter's arm with a sick _crack_.

Everyone stood motionless as the reality hit. Potter was _unconscious_. Amaryllis took a few tentative steps towards him and collapsed.

"Albus," she whispered softly, slapping his cheeks lightly. "Albus... wake up, Al. Please."

Just then, the door to the dungeons swung open with a resonating boom. McGonagall clicked into the room, already yelling before she even had the opportunity to assess the scene.

"What is this_ ruckus _I've been hearing for the past-" McGonagall froze as she surveyed the scene. Desks upended, students crouching against the walls, Potions spilled, Professor stunned, Potter unconscious, Head Boy and Head Girl thrust at either side of the room, one with a black blindfold obscuring her face and another with dysfunctional kneecaps. For a few moments, McGonagall actually seemed speechless. Her eyes darted from the disastrous mess to the student laying on the floor unconscious.

"What _happened _in here?" she whispered, aghast. She looked at each of us with those beady black eyes before settling on the Hufflepuff pair.

"There was a duel," the blonde one squeaked. "It was- there was-"

McGonagall took that as all she needed to know, and bent forward in front of Potter. She examined him for a few seconds before producing her wand and sending out a silver Patronus. She walked over to Professor Goldstein and uprighted her. She looked at all of us again, and with disgusted glares, she spat, "Weasley. Finnigan. Thomas. Malfoy. My office. Now."

* * *

It was a humiliating trudge. McGonagall refused to cure us before we went up, so I every time I took a step, my legs would fold and I would be back on the floor. After an entire flight of stairs, I gave up and just walked backwards. Similarly, Weasley, still bound by the black scarf, walked behind me, her hands out to block her from obstacles. I wanted very badly to stick my leg out and trip her, but I really couldn't figure out how to coordinate my limbs well enough to do so.

"Sit." McGonagall spat tersely, her lips thin and white. I awkwardly flipped the chair around and sat down. Weasley yelped as she sat on the handle instead of the seat. McGonagall seared each of us with a stony look before folding her hands and leaning back. She pointed her wand at Weasley's scarf and made it disappear and pointed her wand at my knees. There was a raging rush of red-hot burning as I felt my knees physically twist back to their normal position. I turned my chair around again. "Explain."

I traded a nervous glance with Amaryllis. I saw Penelope and Weasley shift uncomfortably out of the corner of my eye. Obviously, they weren't going to spill. I sucked in a deep breath.

"Professor," I started. "It's-"

"Professor." Amaryllis cut in before I could continue. "Rose and Scorpius have nothing to do with this. Penelope and I had an argument that got out of hand. Rose and Scorpius tried to intervene, however, we kind of... silenced them." Amaryllis paused, and licked her lips. I looked at her, but she shot me a severing look that clearly said _You've got your title on the line here_. "Albus tried to stop us as well, but..."

"But one of our spells aimed at one another misfired and it hit Professor Goldstein. Albus tried to help her, but he slipped on a puddle of water left over from an Aguamenti spell and crashed into a cauldron of Amortentia." Penelope filled in smoothly. Master of trickery, that one is.

"He _what_?" Weasley gaped. I gave her a look before realizing she couldn't see anything for most the duel. She didn't know anything of Potter's current state. "Is he okay?"

The question hung in the air. Everyone turned first to Penelope and then to Professor.

"You both better hope he's alright." she said, glaring at the two girls seated on either side of me. "Punishments... let's see. Unauthorized duel... two weeks of detention. Attack on a teacher... three Forbidden Forest visits with Hagrid. And endangering students... Trophy room duty for a week. You will report to my office today at seven o'clock. Do _not _be late." McGonagall glared for a few moments, daring us to disagree. "Both of you are free to go. Miss Weasley and Mister Malfoy, if you both would stay for a few moments."

Amaryllis and Penelope slunk out of the room, the former shooting me one last helpless look. My heart was beating madly. If McGonagall decided to strip us of our titles...

McGonagall waited until Penelope and Amaryllis's footsteps had died away in the halls. She turned back to us and came around her desk to face us. "I just want you two to know that I don't believe a word of what I've just heard. And as a result, you two will _not _be attending the next Hogsmeade trip. You will stay at the castle and paint banners for the ball." McGonagall clucked her tongue, and Weasley and I stayed silent, nervous at how easily we had been let off. "Well, what are you waiting for? Would you like more?" There was a clatter as Weasley and I scrambled out of the room.

"Wow," I breathed, once we were a good distance away from the headmistress' office. "I can't believe Amaryllis did that for us."

"No," Weasley snapped harshly, stopping abruptly. "I can't believe she did that for _you_."

I blinked. Okay. _Unexpected_.

"Weasley... Amaryllis and I are going out now. Why are you so against that?"

Weasley gave me a sarcastic look. "It's what you do Malfoy. It's who you _are_. You ask a girl out, you sleep with her, and then you dump her. And I'm not going to let you do that with my best friend."

"Who says I'm going to?" Weasley looked at me blankly for a millisecond and then quirked up an eyebrow.

"Who says you're not?"

Before I could respond, Weasley shook her head and flounced off.

And I know that this was what I had wanted. For there to be a little spice between me and Weasley again. And it's what I had just gotten.

_Why_ then, did it feel so sour? Like I suddenly want this twisted prize anymore?

* * *

"Amaryllis," I whispered, fidgeting uncomfortably. We were in the Hospital Wing, along with Weasley, Penelope, Lorcan Scamander, and Madame Pomfrey, all of us surrounding a still unconscious Potter.

"What?" she murmured quietly.

"I really don't think I should _be_-"

"Shut up, Scorpius," she cut in pleasantly. I folded my arms across my chest and frowned. Potter was supposed to be up and about as of today, and morally, I know that I owed him my presence. But, honestly? I was surrounded by people who blamed me for his being here in the first place. It was a lose-lose situation.

"Mralasgnigan?" Potter bleated abruptly. Everyone snapped to attention and stared at him. It occured to me how strange that must be; waking up from a concussion to see a circle of people, half of which you don't want to see in the first place, staring at you with unblinking, unwavering, transfixed eyes.

_I_ would be freaked out.

But, apparently not Potter. He sat up and rubbed his eyes before stuffing his face into his glasses. He surveyed the room with half-closed eyes and grinned wanly. "Is this my welcoming committee?"

"Albus!" Weasley cried, shoving her way to the side of his bed. "Oh, Al, are you okay? We've been so worried; you being out for four days and-"

"Someone get me a mirror." he interrupted. Everyone huddled around the bed blinked in surprise. He brushed off Madame Pomfrey's frenzied attempts to feed him various concoctions and looked at all of us expectantly.

"Here," Penelope said quietly, handing him a small, powder blue compact that she had produced from her robes. It amused me to no end how innocent and demure she was trying to come off as now, considering it was her fault any of us were here in the first place.

"Huh," Potter breathed. "Not bad. I'm still gorgeous. No broken bones. No scratches on my face. _Damn_, I'm sexy. Actually, I'm more than sexy. I'm the most delectable thing in this entire room." And to everyone's horror, Potter actually started to _coo _at his reflection.

"Why..." Weasley started, looking completely disturbed at Potter's saccharine display of narcissism, "Why does Albus sound like... _Malfoy_?"

Now, I admit, I was slightly offended. I mean, I know I'm an egotist and all, but I've never flirted with myself as blatantly as Potter was right now. I swear, it was as if the boy was in love with himself...

Oh. _Oh_.

Duh.

The actuality of it was so obvious that I actually broke into an obnoxious snicker.

"What is it?" Penelope asked, looking a bit annoyed at the fact that the finger trailing up and down Potter's bicep was affecting him in no way whatsoever.

"Potter had a severe overdose of untainted Amortentia." I responded, still finding the entire situation very amusing.

"Which means...?"

"It means that the first DNA to touch the Amortentia before he swallowed it was his own saliva. Which means that Potter's in love with himself."

Everyone stared at me, mouths agape.

"He should be fine by... Friday?" I guessed. Still no one said anything, just looked at me with their eyes wide and jaws dangling.

Which was uncomfortable, I admit.

"Hey hot stuff," Potter growled at himself, breaking the tension. He bared his teeth pseudo-sensually and then bursting into laughter. "Man I'm funny. And hot. Hell, I'm just a bundle of perfection, no?"

He looked at us and then frowned. "Can I have some privacy, _please_?"

Which is how all six of us, Madame Pomfrey included, ended up _outside_ Potter's cubicle, listening to him try to to seduce himself.

I couldn't but smirk though. After all, we had come here thinking Potter's _life_ was in danger.

Happily Yours,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

This is legitimately the first free time I've had in months.  
So please don't kill me.

The next chapter is going to have a HUGE step in Rose and Scorp's relationship.

Anyway. My birthday was a few weeks ago.

So... birthday reviews would be awesome?

:)


	13. Saturday, September 19

A/N: Hey. Excuse of the month: I was so loaded up with work, and exams, I had to write articles for the school newspaper, a short story for the school literary thing, etc. etc., ad nauseam.

Chapter dedicated to WB for creating the kick-assingest HP6 trailer _ever_. Did you see it yet?!

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

Breathe, Scorpius.

Breathe In.

Breathe Out.

Repeat. Repeat. _Repeat, _goddammit.

It's only the biggest game of the year. It's not like I could screw up. I mean, being me and all, _screw up _isn't even in my vocabulary.

Or so I told myself. It became my mantra, and I chanted it to myself as I began the day as jittery and nervous as ever.

For some reason, starting from maybe around the beginning of September, a strange set of things called _emotions_ have started to affect me. For the past seventeen years, since _birth_, I had never been vulnerable to them. As a baby, the first and last time I ever cried was when I was getting delivered, and I think even then, that was only because the Healers were kind of looking at me funny, _waiting_for it. I would have been a medical anomaly if my last name weren't Malfoy.

See, Malfoys are _genetically_aloof. It's preprogrammed into their DNA.

And I wish it hadn't come undone. I really and truly wish that, at least for just the next few hours, rather, _especially_ for the next few hours, my usual cool and calm demeanor would come back. I had never been as nervous for a game as I am now.

So I tried to hyper-analyze myself. It works for crazed delinquents on Muggle programs. I envisioned myself, or rather, two of myself, sitting on squashy red armchairs, similar to the ones in our common room.

_So, Scorpius, why are you nervous today?_

_Because it's the most important Quidditch match of the year. Gryffindor and Slytherin, remember?_

_But why? You've never been nervous before this year. What's different?_

_Nothing... nothing's different._

_You can't lie to me. Is it Amaryllis?_

_No. Why would she have anything to do with it?_

_Well, she's your girlfriend... Is it possible that you're nervous?_

_Nervous? Pshh. I don't know the meaning of the word. _

_That's not the only thing you don't know._

_What's that supposed to mean?!_

_Nothing at all... Is it Weasley?_

_...What?_

_Weasley, is it Weasley?_

_What the hell_ about _Weasley?_

_Are you nervous to be playing her?_

_I've been playing her for the past six years!_

_You're not answering the question. _

_No. It's not her._

_Don't lie to me._

_But you're me. I'm you. We're each other, the same thing. _

_So don't lie to yourself, then._

* * *

I walked down to the changing rooms, trying desperately to forget that unsettling bipolar conversation with myself. I glanced out of the big bay window. The grass was dry, the sun bled watery yellow light, and the sky was the bluest I'd seen it since tryouts. False harbinger, perhaps?

When I finally reached my destination, I saw that most of the team was assembled around Cecilia, who was pacing back and forth wordlessly. She looked at me upon my arrival, and nodded, telepathically telling me to get my ass into my Quidditch robes before she started stripping me herself.

So I did. When I got back, this time clothed in bottle green, Cecilia was already a good deal into her pre-game pep talk.

"... and if we win this match, just this _one_match, we've got the House Cup in the bag. It will be ours, no matter what. Because the Gryffindor team this year is the only one that poses even the slightest threat to us. So, team, we're going to go out there and we're going to kick ass. And uh, if things aren't looking too great for us, I have a plan. So let's go out there and win!"

There was a cheer, laced throughout with pure nervous excitement. From the pitch, we heard the muted voice of the announcer yell out, presumably to call us out.

"That's our cue," Cecilia breathed under her breath, and led us out to the center of the field. I blinked back the sunlight, and shivered at the light breeze that toyed with the ends of my robes. It was perfect Quidditch weather.

I watched quietly as Cecilia and Potter shook hands. It was firm and quick, more of a jerk, but they were still each trying to stare down the other with laser glares. I glanced around behind Potter. Weasley stood tensely, biting her lip, with her arms knotted across her torso.

"I want a fair game," squawked our birdish old referee, and with a shrill blast of her whistle, the game begun.

I straddled my broom and kicked hard off of the ground.

* * *

We were a good hour into the match.

Gryffindor and Slytherin were dead even, 95 to 95.

And the only snitch sighting turned out to actually be the Gryffindor keeper's earring.

And it's not like I was getting splinters or anything, sitting on my broom for such a long time.

I surveyed the scene pensively, from above.

The commentary from a Hufflepuff girl who's only remarkable attribute was her profound unremarkableness wafted into the air, mixing with the sounds of brooms wooshing, fans roaring, birds twittering. One of our chasers raced to the opposite end of the pitch, a bright red Quaffle tucked under her arm. She chucks it into the middle hoop, causing some kind of earth-shattering reaction from the green-clad crowd.

Suddenly, I felt very detached. The scene playing out below me was like, trapped under an expansive sheet of glass.

It was so surreal. I felt so helpless, yet so in-control at the same time. It was like, I wasn't a part of the madness at all. At least until, I heard my name.

"Malfoy!" I turned to the voice behind me, expecting... well, nothing, really. I was too _in_ my state of temporary delusion to register any thoughts.

Until I saw who it was that was calling me.

"Potter...?"

"Malfoy, we need to talk."

"Potter. We are in the middle of a Quidditch match. "

"Which is going to keep going on, because we're the one's that end it, remember?"

"Now is really not the time. Or actually, if you can just save that thought forever? I doubt I'll ever be in the mood to converse with you..."

"You're a fucking asshole, Malfoy." I blinked, taken aback by his sudden hostility. That was _entirely_ uncalled for.

"That was entirely uncalled for."

"Uncalled for, my _ass_. You let your _girlfriend_ take the blame on something you instigated!"

"Weasley let her take the blame, too" I countered, unsure of where exactly this conversation was headed.

"But she did that for Rose as a friend. Her _title_ was on the line."

"And where was mine? I know I'm the hottest guy on campus, but my looks can't get me out of everything."

"You are not the hottest guy on campus," Potter seethed. "You are the biggest jerk on campus, yes. You are the most notorious player on campus, yes. But hot, you are _not_."

"Hot, yes I am. What is this about, Potter?"

"This is about you completely using Amaryllis!"

"_And_ Penelope..." I reminded. Just as I thought, a short flash of pain passed over his eyes, and he looked away.

"Turn yourself in."

"That would be redundant. McGonagall already gave Weasley and I a banned Hogsmeade trip to be spent painting banners."

"Then why the hell is Amaryllis still serving two weeks detention?"

"Why the hell do you _care_?" I shot back, now completely and thoroughly puzzled. Potter had never struck me as the type to have a pit-bull-like defense system.

"Malfoy," Potter spat, through clenched teeth. "I know you'd know very little about this, but it's in human nature to stand up for one's friends."

"Well. Amaryllis doesn't need to be stood up for," I said. And then, very slowly and purposefully, enunciating every word, I continued. "She. Has. Me."

"She should just..."

"She should just what?" I furrowed my brows. Potter was squinting at a spot in space below my left heel. We looked at each other at precisely the same moment, and I didn't even need to look down to know what it was. I pulled into a vertical nose-dive. The snitch flittered merrily in midair for the slightest moment before zipping away.

I leaned down, parallel to my broom, into the most aerodynamic form possible. Potter and I were neck and neck; elbow to elbow; my fingertip only extending a few centimeters farther than his. The gilded wings vibrated against my thumb for a millisecond before jetting off even faster again.

More commentary, this one laced with words and named that sounded familiar and fitting, twisted by, but I didn't acknowledge a word of it. In the vague background, by the recesses of my subconscious, I registered the crowds going insane, roaring and hissing at us.

The wind whistled in my ears, a quiet motivational whisper. _Lean into it. _I braced myself and pushed harder, flattening myself even farther down.

Do I dare pull a Wronsky Feint? Will Potter fall for it?

The snitch hovered again, almost as if it was taunting us. Everything else faded to black as I focused all my attention on the tiny glimmering speck against the azure backdrop.

The last clear-cut thing I remember was Cecilia's voice from somewhere far away. I turned my head, the curtain of black concentration shattering, just in time to see her slam a bludger in my direction. I swept downwards to dodge it, and Potter, sensing this, sweeps down right next to me.

I'm still soaring, not looking back up until I hear it. That _sound_.

A sickening _thwack_. Followed by a faint cracking sound; a scream; and a huge, sucking gasp from the entire crowd.

I glance back up to source the sound. And what I see is a mass of red-- billowing red robes, a tangle of red hair, a trickle of red blood-- hurtling down towards me.

The snitch was curving away from my hand on one side, and Weasley was free falling on the other.

It was a split second decision. It honestly didn't even register in my mind until I had fully swooped out of my nose-dive. I heard, from the crowd, a collective gasp.

But I didn't register it.

Just like I didn't register myself racing in Weasley's direction.

Didn't register myself pulling out a sinewy arm and catching Weasley around the waist.

Didn't register pulling her onto my broom sideways, before she plunged to her imminent doom.

My heart was racing; my vision throbbing.

A whistle blasted somewhere below us. I turned behind me, to see Potter holding the snitch in one hand, but wearing a wide-eyed look of astonishment.

It was then that I realized everything.

Weasley's hands pressed into my chest; her body racking with heaving, hysterical sobs; her glassy oceanic eyes wide in fear, shock, panic, bewilderment...

Confusion.

I saw confusion in her eyes. More specifically, confusion in the reflections of _my_ face in her eyes.

What the hell had I just _done_?

Bewildered,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

Scorpius is quite the boyscout on his broomstick, eh?

A review would make my day. And _your_ day, too, if you like virtual brownies. ;)


	14. Thursday, September 24

A/N: Yayy. Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of this fic! *throws a fistful of confetti*  
Guess that shows how bad at updating I am, eh?

Chapter dedicated to **TillTheLastRoseDies** for writing a review that just made me laugh. Don't worry, I've crushed on fictional character's before-- it's completely normal. =)

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

_Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it._

Exhibit A: I was a content object in space, swinging freely and happily until the evil external force Weasley disrupted my free and happy state of motion by crash-landing in to my affairs.

_For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction_**.**

Exhibit B: I made the bloody mistake of saving Weasley's ass, and now the entire Slytherin house hates me.

Amazing how physics seems to have an explanation for everything except life's most puzzling paradox: Why Slytherin heir Scorpius Malfoy, known for being the most egocentric, pompous player on the face of the planet, decided to be a fucking _boyscout_ and save the life of _Rose Weasley_, his blood rival, during the most important Quidditch match of the year, subsequently losing his team that match.

Cecilia, after the match, was a spectacle. Never before in my life have I been so afraid of someone more than a foot shorter than me. She was sizzling mad, the steam coming out her ears practically _visible, _as she dragged me off of the pitch by the wrist and shoved me into the team room.

"What were you _thinking_?" Cecilia hissed at me, claws out. I shifted uncomfortably.

"It was an acci-"

"Accident, my ass! I would believe that if you were someone who practiced _chivalry_. Who do you think you are, a fucking Gryffindor?"

"I saved Scamander before!"

"Wow, _Scorpius Malfoy can throw brooms at people_! We ought to give you a medal!"

"You're missing the point, Cecilia. I meant, you never cared about my _chivalry _when I saved Scamander. But now, it's like I'm disgracing the Slytherin name by showing morals!"

"_You are disgracing the Slytherin name_! My plan, would you like to hear my plan Scorpius? I hit that bludger at Weasley on _purpose_. I _meant_ to unseat her. I wanted to distract _Potter_, who you may recall is her _cousin_, so _he_ would go save her. Not _you_. "

"Cecilia-"

"No, Scorpius. Unfortunately, I don't have the grounds to kick you off of the team. But let's just say, the next few practices are going to make you wish I did."

And with that threatening end to her tirade, Cecilia stalked out of the room. I sat there quietly for a few moments, thinking about what I did.

Eventually, the rest of the team milled in to get changed. I was greeted with cold, icy stares.

My thoughts thoroughly muddled, I got up to leave.

No one-- not a single person-- said goodbye.

* * *

A lot of things aren't making sense right now.

I made a mistake. A mistake I'm sure I will pay _very _dearly for during the next few weeks of Quidditch practice.

Here are the facts:

1) I did not mean to save Weasley.

2) I now slightly wish I _hadn't _saved Weasley.

3) The whole Slytherin team agrees that I _shouldn't _have saved Weasley.

4) Because of this, they refuse to talk to me, or really acknowledge my presence at all.

5) Because the Slytherin Quidditch team acts as the idols for the entire house, _none _of the Slytherins will talk to me.

6) Except Zabini. But he doesn't really count.

I should have expected, though, that since Slytherins and Gryffindors are polar opposites, if the former began to act like the latter, then the latter would start acting like the former.

Seriously.

I knew I'd be getting praise after this game, but never in a million years did I expect it to be from the Gryffindors.

I mean, what the hell? Do you _know_ how disconcerting it is to have a little first year run up to you in the library and _hug_ your leg?

We Slytherins don't express or feelings in that manner.

Honestly. I didn't know whether to kick him off or pat his head. Lucky for me, I didn't have to decide, as he let go after a few seconds and continued to grin at me.

"I think it's really great, what you did for Rose," first-year-leg-groper squealed in a voice much too prepubescent for me to listen to comfortably.

"I, er... okay?"

"I want to be just like you when I get older! You're like a hero!" And with a toothy smile, he walked off, leaving a trail of rainbows and lollipops in his wake

I have to admit, I'd never experienced anything like that before.

It was almost sweet.

And as it turned out, that was only the tip of the candy cane.

* * *

"Malfoy!" I heard, just as I was about to dig into my treacle tart during lunch one day. I looked up to see none other than Albus Potter-- the boy who, let me remind you, put our last Quidditch game on _pause_ just to lecture me on my morals.

I lifted my eyebrows but did not respond.

Potter looked at me with a pained expression, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to formulate a comprehensible sentence.

"Malfoy-- look," He started, still fumbling a bit for the right words. "I just wanted to thank you... For saving Rose..."

I continued to stare at him. As much as he may think he was being kind, he was actually only adding acid to the gash.

"It was noble of you. Really."

I only maintained my icy gaze as Potter started to shift uneasily under it.

"Scorpius," Zabini whispered from next to me. I detected a reprimanding connotation in his voice. I tilted my ear a little to the left until I started to receive his telepathic message to me. _Stop being an asshole, Scorpius, and just thank him or something. _

I rolled my eyes. Not happening.

"Well, yeah..." Potter continued on, still as painfully awkward as before, "...just... thank you. Thank you."

Potter turned on heel and began to speed walk back over to the Gryffindor table. Zabini nudged me in the ribs. I sighed.

"Albus! Wait!"

Except that wasn't me. It didn't take me much longer than a millisecond to match _that_ voice to a body.

A gorgeous body, I might add.

Enter, Penelope Thomas, her face a carefully arranged mask of tragedy. Key words: _carefully arranged_. As in, _any_ idiot could see that her forlorn expression was as fake as McGonagall's kindness.

That is of course, any idiot except Albus Potter.

"Albus!" Penelope repeated, rushing up to his frozen form. "Oh Albus, honey I've missed you..."

"Poor boy," snorted someone from behind me. I turned to meet my third encounter with a Gryffindor in the past 12 hours.

"Hello, love," I threw back to Amaryllis. She smiled and snaked her arms around my neck.

"Scorpius..." she whispered, her breath hot against my cheek. "What you did for Rose was so..."

So _what_? Daring? Noble? Brave?

"..._Sexy_."

Or that.

I smirked, and retrained my attention back onto Penelope and Potter.

"Albus," Penelope whined, playfully mussing up his hair. Next to me, I could practically hear Amaryllis' eyes rolling. "Baby, I've missed you. We should get back together."

"Penelope," I heard Potter respond in a tight voice. "I don't think-"

"Don't think, Albus. Just do." Penelope cut in, her eyes intense. Then, she pressed her face into his.

I guess it was a kiss, if you maybe squinted and turned your head to a 45 degree angle.

"Ouch," grimaced Amaryllis, echoing my thoughts exactly. It _did_ look more like a form of corporeal punishment than anything else.

When at last Penelope unsuctioned her mouth from Potter's, maybe a few decades later, a hush seemed to fall over the entire Great Hall. Then slowly and gently, almost as if he were afraid, Potter rested his hand on Penelope's shoulder.

"Penelope. I don't think... it's a good idea for us to, er, get back together. It's... it's not meant to be. I can't let you do this to me anymore."

There was a piercing catcall from the far side of the Slytherin table.

"Thomas, sweetheart, I'll let you do _whatever_ you want to me," came a sly voice, much to the amusement of the area's entire male population.

Potter and Penelope both snapped their heads in our direction, their eyes raking over each and every person seated at the table. Amaryllis leaned into me again, resting her head into the crook of my shoulder. Potter's eyes lingered over us for a moment before returning to Penelope.

"Please, Albus," she begged, plastic tears simmering in her eyes. "Give me another chance."

"Penelope..." he sighed, his expression almost resigned. And then, the last word that I would have ever thought of came out of his mouth: "Okay."

Even _Penelope_ looked stunned.

"Okay?" she confirmed when she had finally resurfaced from her stupor. "Oh, Albus, I _knew_ you loved me!"

"_Idiot_," blurted Amaryllis, from next to me. Her celery green eyes were enormous and her jaw was unhinged and dangling. "I- I'll see you later Scorp. I swear to god, the boy's _mental_."

And with those parting words, Amaryllis detached herself from the Slytherin table and ran off.

* * *

There is honestly nothing I wanted to do more that evening that to just go back out to my boulder again. It was raining, but I didn't even care. Let it rain. It might mask my tears.

Ha. See, that was a joke. Because Malfoys don't know how to cry.

But if I did, I might have been by now. That's what happens when your entire house hates every fiber of your being.

The portrait to the commons swung open with a click, and in entered Weasley.

And up went Malfoy.

I _so _did not need to be here, to listen to her inevitably thank me for being such a good Samaritan. And then we would be best buddies again, and there would be no point to me having ever asked out Amaryllis in the first place.

I grabbed my wand and headed for the door.

"Malfoy." I stopped, but didn't turn around.

"Malfoy." I repeated. "'Thank you so much for saving my life. You're such a noble, brave hero. I don't know how I ever repay you!'. Is that what you were going to say, Weasley? Because in all honesty, I don't want to hear it."

There was a very long silence.

"Where are you going?" Weasley asked softly. I turned and gave her a very hard, calculative look.

"Out."

"It's raining outside."

"Yeah, well. It's not sunny inside, either."

"I wasn't going to thank you," she said suddenly. I gave her a blank look.

"Excuse me?"

"I wasn't. It was surprisingly out-of-character for you, and it was noble, and it _was_ heroic. But I'm not going to thank you."

"It's fine," I responded. "I thanked myself _for_ you."

"Good," she responded saucily, quirking up an eyebrow. "It's all you're going to get."

"...What the hell?" I snapped. I've been hating the praise I've been receiving all day, but honestly, _not _getting thanks from the one person who I really should be getting it from is just ungrateful. I mean, I lost my _Quidditch_ game for her.

_Not_ thanking me was a bitch move.

"My father saved your father's life more than twenty years ago during the Final Battle. Uncle Harry told me the story plenty of times." she explained.

I pursed my lips. I'd heard the story, too.

"So..." Weasley continued, scaling up the stairs to her dormitory, "You can consider ourselves _even_."

And giving me a last ghostly smile, Weasley shut the door to her room, leaving me alone in my new freedom from debt.

And I love how, even though I was the one with the upper hand not more than two minutes ago, Weasley managed to take _that_ from me, too.

Evenly Yours,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

YES. Okay, I'm sorry this chapter was a little slow, but all of the information-- especially the stuff with Al and Penelope-- was absolutely vital to the plotline.

Reviews? I will shower you with virtual confetti. ;)

And the next chapter will be amazing and FILLED with Rose, I promise.


	15. Saturday, September 26

A/N: Yessssss! School is over, finals are over, summer has officially _taken_ over! (I'm writing this at 1 AM. On a _Thursday_.)

Chapter dedicated to **Zayz **for writing some of the most long, beautiful, luscious reviews I've ever seen and for being the _100th_ person to favorite this story! :D

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

There was a general euphoric buzz in the air this morning. The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year seems to do that to people.

It would be doing that to me, too.

You know, if I were going and all.

But it's cool. I'll be fine staying back, locked in a room.

Painting banners.

_With Weasley._

I will be _A-okay_. Don't worry your precious little souls about me.

As it turned out, this wasn't a problem. _No one_ was worrying about me.

_Zabini_ didn't even remember that I wouldn't be joining him today until I showed up to breakfast 30 minutes late, sans jacket or scarf.

"Why aren't you ready yet?" Zabini gurgled, his mouth still half-full with scrambled eggs.

"I'm not going."

"Why not?"

I gave him a shrewd look. It was unlike him to not remember this.

"Oh, maybe a _romantic_ evening planned tonight?" he teased, a suggestive smirk dancing along his lips. Something told me he was using the term _romantic_ a little euphemistically.

"Yeah," I retorted with a sarcastic grimace, "I'll be having a threesome with McGonagall and Weasley."

Zabini looked at me again, an expression of blank incomprehension clouding his face.

"I have detention, remember? I'm supposed to be painting banners for the All Hallow's Eve Ball with Weasley." I shoveled a heaping portion of some strange type of dark-chocolate confection onto my plate.

Little known fact about Scorpius Malfoy: he has a thing for sweets— dark chocolate, especially.

There's just something mysterious about dark chocolate; it's rich and luscious and strong and bitter. Almost like a misunderstood soul. And the fact that it happened to be a natural aphrodisiac? Only an added bonus.

"That sucks," Zabini offered—and that was all. No offer to stay with me, no suggestion as to how to spend my time, not even a measly promise to buy me chocolate from Honeydukes.

I squinted at Zabini carefully, trying to read him. He was... _changing_.

"So," I said abruptly, still scrutinizing him, "what are your plans for the day?"

"I'll be at the Three Broomsticks with this girl from my Charms class, the one with the really curly blond hair? And then later, Madame Puddifoot's with Vanessa Smeltings."

Two dates in one day? _Damn_.

He must have seen my expression of slight awe, because his smirk grew wide and arrogant.

"I should get going now, actually. I'll see you later, Scorp."

And for, I swear to god, the first time in my entire life, Phineas Zabini, my stalker to top all stalkers, walked away from _me_.

* * *

"So." McGonagall snapped, as Weasley and I strolled into her office precisely thirty seconds before we were scheduled to. She surveyed us both with a smirk. "You two _do_ know that you'll be painting banners today, correct?"

"I'm aware," Weasley responded tonelessly.

"Then why are you wearing that?" Professor McGonagall asked me, vaguely gesturing to my impeccable attire. I shrugged.

"These are my cheap clothes."

Rose snorted. But it was true. I had to scrounge together my ensemble from the deep, dark depths of my closet, from under the layers of dragonhide and leather and silk and cashmere.

"Very well, Mister Malfoy." McGonagall said, amused, and led us into a classroom. This one, unlike the one we had been locked in for our 24-hour exile from humanity, had windows, ventilation, and seemed like it had actually been occupied recently. Long scrolls of parchment were stacked on the desks and tables, all of which were pushed to the side of the room. In the center, on the floor, were three very long strips of canvas cloth, surrounded by phials of Slughorn's patented Permanent Paint Stains and... _paintbrushes_.

Okay. I mean, I knew we were supposed to be painting and all, but actually _seeing_ paintbrushes sort of put it into perspective.

I was going to be doing _peon's_ work.

Oh, just strip me of my dignity now.

Weasley must have seen my pained expression, as she snorted again.

"Your punishment is rather straightforward," McGonagall explained, "You will be painting banners for the All Hallow's Eve Ball, manually. No magic. There's a trace on the canvases right now, so any magic _will_ cause them to burn up, and when I find out I _will_ be furious, and you two _will_ give up your titles."

Weasley and I exchanged an uneasy glance. Why not just take our wands away so we _couldn't_ use magic? Why let us keep the wands? Why make us practice _self-control_, of all things?

"I'll be back in five hours."

"Cheers," Weasley responded weakly, as McGonagall gave us one last omniscient smile and slid out the door, closing it with a firm _click_.

* * *

We had been working for at least an hour.

Our second piece of canvas was almost complete.

With much effort, I had managed to abstain from getting a single drop of paint on my clothes.

And, I kid you not, Weasley and I still hadn't exchanged a _single_ word.

Which is why I think I surprised both of us when I just started talking. Anything to kill the silence; it was bloody _suffocating_.

"I think we should paint the next one in entirely green-and-silver hues."

"I agree."

I was about to shoot off a snappy comeback from my repertoire when--

Wait. What?

"You... agree?" I repeated.

"Oh, definitely," she assured me breezily, which in itself should have warned me that something sharp was on the tip of her tongue, "Slytherins only read things associated with themselves. There'd be no other way to get them to come to it, the narcissists."

"That was unnecessarily harsh." I said plaintively. I wasn't really mad. I mean, I _had_ asked for it.

"It was also true. And you know it."

"Not _completely_ true, love. If I _was_ a total narcissist, you wouldn't be sitting here right now." I blurted without really thinking.

My first thought was, of course, _Veritaserum._ But then I realized that those words had been pushing at my lips all day. I just hadn't acknowledged them until they fell out a few moments ago.

"I...," Weasley stuttered, just as startled as I was. She took a deep breath and focused her crystalline blue eyes on me. " I already told you, Malfoy. I'm not going to let you hold that over my head. We're _even_."

"_Weasley_. Malfoys don't play to get even. We play to _win_." I responded ominously. Weasley squinted at me, a wry, acerbic look on her face. She picked up her paintbrush and strode up to me, until her upturned chin was just inches from chest.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she snapped. "_'We play to win?' _Malfoy, we're talking about _lives_ here. What the hell are you trying to _say_? That you're going to save more lives than me? Or that you're going to off someone just to '_win_'? Win what? _Honestly_, sometimes, I swear I have no clue what runs through your mind."

I was quiet. In all honesty, I really didn't mean anything. I was just trying to sound mysterious. It sounded mysterious in my head, and I'm pretty sure it sounded mysterious when I said it. Trust Weasley to go and find some hidden meaning that I didn't even _vaguely_ insinuate.

Instead of saying any of that though, I met her gaze. She was gaining the advantage in this conversation and I couldn't let that happen.

"Weasley. Shut up." I said calmly, looking her straight in her stormy eyes. "You think you're so clever, don't you? You think you've got everyone bloody figured out. Well, love. You don't. _Sometimes_ you have no clue what runs through my mind? Try _never_. I'm not some little _puzzle_ you can crack. Try as you might, and I'm pretty sure you will, you're not going to figure me out."

For a split second, Weasley retracted. She stepped back. Her arms crossed over her chest. She looked as though she was going to turn around and walk away. But then, her jaw set into an even line, and she leaned forward.

"You're wrong, Malfoy," she hissed in my ear, "I know you a lot better than you think I do. I know why you asked out Amaryllis."

"And why is that?" I asked pseudo-sincerely, tilting my head in mock-concern.

"You wanted to make me mad. You wanted to rile me up." She suddenly looked up, as though she had figured out some great enigma. Then, with each syllable punctuated and accented: "You wanted to make me jealous."

I almost stopped short. Because she was spot-on. Not about the jealousy part, _Merlin_ no. But the rest of it. All true. I inhaled deeply, and continued.

"It's funny," I said, in a tone that clearly indicated that the situation was not comical in any way, "that you call Slytherins narcissists. You seem to think everything revolves around _you. _Me, ask out Amaryllis because I, I don't know, _like_ her? Why, it's unthinkable! It's a conspiracy! I'm obviously out to make my hideous troll of Co-Head _jealous_!"

For a moment, my words rung in the air. Weasley's eyes doubled in circumference.

"You asshole," she whispered, stabbing the paintbrush she was holding into my chest. A ray of light streamed in through the window, and as the beam settled on us, it made Weasley's eyes sparkle. It took me a few seconds to realize that the sparkles were tears.

_Merlin_.

I had forgotten the cardinal rule of girls. Never insult them on their looks. I mean, "_Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned_"? The man knew what he was talking about.

I sighed and looked down. I may have been a huge cad right there, but I would not have a woman's tears on my conscience. I stopped suddenly.

But not because of the tears.

I stopped because, as I looked down, I was greeted to the sight of a magnificent red paint stain on my chest. Connected to Weasley's paintbrush.

"You got paint on my shirt," I breathed, awestruck. Banners, tears, and a scorned woman's fury all slipped from my mind.

Because there was paint. _On my shirt_.

And I couldn't use magic to get it off. Because, hello? _Patented Permanent?_

And I swear it was an accident. Revenge wasn't even on my mind, as I lifted my own paintbrush up to point out the stain to Weasley.

And ended up splashing her on the face with emerald green.

Her jaw dropped open as she reached up to touch the glob on her cheek. And before I could have blinked, Weasley had a huge pot of gold in her hand.

A half-second later, it was in my hair. The drops trickled down slowly, seeping into my scalp.

"Oh." I hissed. She did _not_ just do that. Weasley seemed to read my thoughts, as she granted me a proud smirk.

I glared at her, and ran to the other side of the room, grabbed a phial of silver and chucked the contents at Weasley. You'd think my aim would have been ghastly from so far, but I hit my mark perfectly.

But Weasley barely registered it as she ducked down to grab another goldish mixture, dipped her paintbrush in it, and began to advance. She threw the brush at me, and it hit the plane of my cheek, right were my scar was just beginning to fade.

She reached back down just as I did, and we both resurfaced, armed with red and green dipped brushes, respectively. I walked up to Weasley, preparing to walk her into a corner. I had her there for a _millisecond_, until she somehow shimmied out and turned on me.

So _I_ was in the corner.

Weasley looked at me with a teasing smile, surveying the paint on the bristles of the brush. "This shade of red is going to suit your skin tone. Red in general will compliment you so nicely..." She pantomimed slashing my mouth with the paintbrush, and then grinned again. I realized what she was going to do. She was going to paint my lips.

Translation: she was going to strip me of my manhood.

See, Slughorn's patented permanent paint was actually... _permanent_. No magic can get it off. The only way to remove it would be to peel and regrow the skin grafts. Which isn't too bad when it's my cheek. But peeling and regrowing the skin on my lips? That's _pain_.

And Weasley was inching closer to me. I tried to push her away, but she had a vice-like grip on my arms. The brush was dancing dangerously close to my face.

So I did the only thing I could think to do to stop her.

I kissed her.

I mean, my lips were already tingling with the prospect of being skinned, so it wasn't too bad. At least, at first, when all I was trying to do was surprise Weasley enough to get her to uncorner me.

And surprised she was. Her eyes went wide and her hand rose as though she wanted to slap me. But, see, I have this way with girls. _You just can't say no._

And then, just when she had backed up enough for me to let go of her, enough for me to wriggle out of the corner, she started kissing me back.

_Electricity_.

It was like we were a circuit. Energy rushed from me to her and her to me and sparks flew and there was a palpable rush in the air. Breathing became optional, oxygen wasn't a necessity.

I suddenly understood Scamander's fascination with her.

All of a sudden we pulled apart. I don't know how. I barely realized anything except:

_1) Did I just kiss Weasley? Did I just enjoy it?  
2) Hey, look, I'm out of the corner!  
3) Weasley's arm is up again. _

And I realized I hadn't screwed fate over at all. I had merely stopped time.

Her hand flew down across my cheek.

And when I turned around again, her tears were flowing freely.

But these tears, I could tell, were completely different.

?,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

Phew. Well, that was about as jam-packed with symbolism as I could get it. :D

Aaaand…It's July. And I'm a bad, bad author. I want to promise that I'll update next week, but I know that I probably won't.  
But who knows? Maybe I'll surprise us all.

Hey-- on another note, I'm going to a Tom Felton signing this Friday! ~very excited~

Thankyouthankyouthankyou to my awesome beta **thecanary** for editing this chapter!

A review would be splendid. All reviewers will be awarded with virtual... er.... virtual... popcorn. Cause hey, you'll need it for when HBP comes out (one-and-a-half weeks!)

Cheers.


	16. Wednesday, September 30

I'M SORRY. I know you all want to stone me, probably. I'M REALLY SORRY.

Quick recap, because I know you've all probably forgotten what's happened: Rose and Scorp hate each other, then serve that detention and sort of become friends and then Scorp starts dating Amaryllis, Rose's best friend. There is a war in the potions dungeon which causes Rose and Scorp to get another detention in which there is a really bizarre kiss. Somewhere in the midst of all this, Scorpius loses his Quidditch game in order to save a falling Rose.

Chapter dedicated to all y'all that sent me tough love reviews and bitch-slapped me into finally finishing this chapter. Also, **LunaPadma**, for bribing me with a pony. I expect to be receiving it soon.

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

The word _set_ has 424 different definitions in the dictionary.

Similarly, Rose Weasley has 424 different personalities, that bipolar bitch.

I really don't know what to make of her. Ever since that kiss (can I call it a kiss? It seems like something in a completely different genre, like a stage kiss. Except… not.) a few days ago, everything seems to be cast in an entirely different light. Up is down; right is left; gravity seems to be changing…

And yet, the fact that everyone around me seems to be acting completely the same seems the strangest of all. I mean, I'm dead bloody glad that no one found out about it. I would never be able to face the Slytherin table again if they did.

But it's just so weird to think that nobody knows what happened.

"Hello, hello, Scorpius." Zabini sang as he pirouetted to the Slytherin table for breakfast the next morning. Let me reiterate: Zabini was _singing. _And _dancing_. In the _morning_. On his way to the goddamn _Slytherin table_. There were so many things wrong with this image that my fork literally froze a few inches from my lips, and stayed there for a good fifteen seconds.

"Well," I said, finally. "Someone's happy."

"I am indeed."

"Care to elaborate?"

"My dates went wonderfully yesterday," he proclaimed a little louder than necessary, grinning as a few heads turned at his pluralization of the word.

"Oh really." I responded flatly. The roof of my mouth began to itch as I spotted The Golden Trio walking into the Great Hall. Amaryllis and Potter were laughing about something, and Weasley was following a few paces behind them, her face stony and silent.

I was only half-listening to Zabini's enthusiastic description of the night before, but he hardly noticed. I focused my gaze at the back of Weasley's head, willing her to turn the hell around and look me in the eye.

And as if I had said this aloud, Weasley did turn. And she looked me straight in the eye, her stare flat, but steady. I was surprised, but I didn't let it show on my face. I saw Amaryllis turn her head to ask Weasley what she was looking at. I shifted my gaze to my girlfriend for a moment, the tiniest feeling of guilt bubbling in my stomach, and then turned away, just in time to hear the end of Zabini's story.

"So they both want to go out again. But I don't think I'm going to. I've got my sights set on a new girl."

"Tell me more," I said dryly, but the sarcasm didn't convey.

"That one right there," he said, and gestured with his chin to a girl walking through the door, a green scarf knotted around her neck. At first I was merely relieved that he was going for a Slytherin this time.

Then the girl turned around and I started choking on my toast.

"_Cecilia Vane_?" I wheezed. "Do you _want_ to get beaten in your sleep? Hell, even _I'm_ a little afraid of her!"

"I see her as more of a _challenge_," Zabini responded, rubbing his hands together. I gave him an incredulous look. Fine. I mean it _was_ his death wish, after all.

As if on cue, Cecilia stopped for a moment in front of where I was sitting. She assessed my half-eaten toast with a look of disdain and then said, "Scorp, we have Quidditch practice tomorrow and Thursday. If you do not show up, I _will_ castrate you with my bare hands."

I winced.

"You're a strong-minded captain," Zabini commented casually. "Most girls wouldn't have the balls to talk to Scorpius Malfoy like that."

"Eh," she shrugged. "He's really not as big and bad as he thinks he is."

"I'm bad," I protested weakly, but Cecilia only quirked an eyebrow.

"Right. I'm giving you guys weekends off for the rest of this month because the Hufflepuffs have reserved them all in advance for their next match."

"So you're not really giving us the days off on your own account then, correct?" I countered lightly, because in all honesty, you can't just tell Scorpius Malfoy that he's not big and bad and just expect to get away with it. I mean, really. I _am_ big. And I _am_ bad.

"Shut it, Scorpius," she said, rolling her eyes. But before I could protest, Zabini cut in.

"Since, Cecilia, you're not going to have Quidditch practice for the next few weekends, would you maybe want to go out with me next Saturday? Maybe the library to… _study_?" Zabini asked, emphasizing the last word just enough so it gained a completely different meaning. I closed my eyes, waiting to hear the explosion. I mean, you just did not talk to Cecilia Vane like that. There's a reason she's not on the list of girls I've shagged already. She just _can't_ be womanized.

Nothing happened for a few moments. I opened my eyes, expecting the cause of silence to be something along the lines of Cecilia choking Zabini until he was blue.

Instead, to my great and utter surprise, she was still standing in the same spot, this time with a pleased blush staining her cheeks. She was suddenly demure, tucking a strand of raven-black hair behind her ears.

"Sure. That would be nice," Cecilia said, and with another small smile, she walked back to her gaggle of friends.

"Wow. You just tamed the goddamn _shrew_." I said, completely awestruck.

Zabini didn't answer. Instead, he gave me a smug look and slowly bit into his envy-green apple.

* * *

"Scorpius, love, throw me my Charms textbook, will you?" Amaryllis called from the chintz armchair in the Head's common room. She had come to spend the night with Weasley, but of course, in the fashion of every other girl I have ever dated, her plans flew out the window the second I stepped into the room. Weasley sat sullenly in the corner, throwing me alternating looks of molten fury, unbridled anxiety, and hard, overt guilt.

"So, I heard about the detention," Amaryllis began as I chucked the textbook at her, obviously an attempt to integrate Weasley back into the conversation. "I heard it was quite a… fiasco."

"Did you, now?" I responded with forced nonchalance. I caught Weasley's eye for a second. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, her forehead creasing slightly. I took this to mean that no, Weasley had not told her best friend.

So, of course, when I turned back to my girlfriend, I had absolutely no clue what she was talking about.

"Yeah," Amaryllis continued, and then, catching my blank stare, she furrowed her eyebrows. "The paint war?"

'Oh!" I said loudly, trying to cover up my momentary lapse. "Right. The… paint war…"

"What did you end up doing, Rosie? I mean, when you walked out of detention, your face was covered in silver paint. How'd you manage to get it off?"

"Well, after the…" Rose trailed off and threw me an alarmed look.

"After the paint war commenced," I filled-in hastily.

"Er, yeah. After that, we had to clean up the room. Luckily, the paint only splattered on the walls. So we were able to paint it over with the extra white that we had. And then we somehow managed to leave without McGonagall catching sight of our faces. And we… went to Madame Pomfrey. She was able to regrow our skin where necessary. My face is still a little tender, actually." Weasley shot me an accusatory glance.

"As is mine," a snapped in response. "And I got it all in my hair, too. It's still in there. The only way to get it out would be to shave my head. I told her no thanks, I mean you can hardly tell. It just looks like I've dyed my head a richer shade of blonde…"

"Scorpius," Amaryllis said carefully, tasting the words on her tongue, as if she weren't quite sure how to break it to me, "Your hair… _sparkles_."

I whipped my head around and bolted to the nearest mirror.

_Sparkles_?

And indeed, Amaryllis wasn't lying. Upon close inspection I realized that a small amount of glitter–obviously from the paint—coated the top section of my hair.

Merlin, please. How much un-manlier can you get?

Just stuff me in a tiara. Go on.

Disgruntled, I returned to the armchair.

"I hate you," I hissed at Weasley. She turned red but didn't acknowledge me.

"Now, Scorp. Why can't we all be friends here? As fellow Heads, you should be more civil towards each other. I'm not asking you to _kiss_ her, Scorp, but yor could really—"

But Amaryllis never finished her sentence, as Weasley had succumbed to a fit of throat-racking coughs.

"Rosie? Rosie, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Weasley wheezed, her eyes watering and her cheeks pink. "Just an influx of bile at the thought of ever having to kiss Malfoy. You know, gag reflex and all."

I narrowed my eyes at her from across the room. So that's how she wanted to play.

"Weasley, no girl is insusceptible to me and _you know it_."

"Yeah, well I _am_," she snapped back.

"So then you're not a girl?" I asked with a sarcastic look of worry on my face. I got up from my chair at the same time Weasley did.

"_Excuse me_?"

"No girl is insusceptible to Scorpius Malfoy. _You_, however, claim to be insusceptible. Therefore, the obvious conclusion is that you're not of the female persuasion." I took a few steps forward and crossed my arms.

"That is the most fucked-up syllogism I've ever heard," Weasley scoffed. "You are in love with yourself."

"Of course I am. What's not to love?"

"Oh, so that means you're a girl then." Weasley walked up so she was a foot or so in front of me and cocked her head forty-five degrees to the right.

"_What_?"

"According to you, no girl is insusceptible to Scorpius Malfoy. You yourself are insusceptible to Scorpius Malfoy. So the conclusion that we come to is that _you are a girl._"

There was a sizzling silence. I could hear Weasley's red curls crackling with electricity.

"That's a _conditional statement,_ Weasley. All girls are susceptible to Scorpius Malfoy. However, it was never stated that all those susceptible to Scorpius Malfoy are girls. The converse of the given statement was never—"

"Oh shut up, Malfoy. You would never get into a fight, because you're too afraid that you would get your clothes dirty. You have an aneurism every time anyone touches your hair. Your best friends are your Italian leather loafers. Face it; you're the biggest girl in this entire room."

There was silence. Never, in all my seventeen years, had anyone ever challenged my masculinity. I've been insulted loads of times, sure (always by Weasley, mind you). But the fact that I was as manly as a man could be had never been disputed. I wondered for a moment whether everyone thought this of me, but had never voiced it because they considered it too low of a blow.

Wait, I told myself. You are Scorpius fucking Malfoy. You're are one-hundred, nay, _four-hundred_ percent lean, muscular _man_. I straightened my jawline and cut a glance to Amaryllis, who was simply sitting there, her expression equal parts exasperation and bewilderment.

"Well then I guess that makes you lesbian, Weasley," I said in a low tone. Of all the things I could have said, I don't think she expected this. "That's right. I just called you out. You're in love with me. You, Rose Weasley, are in love with your best friend's boyfriend."

Rose looked severely taken aback. "I _have_ a boyfriend, thanks."

"That means nothing."

"Amarylllis," Weasley whipped her head around to her best friend, he tone both alarmed and beseeching, "Are you hearing this? How on earth could you possibly be dating this douchebag? He just asked me—"

"You haven't denied it," Amaryllis said quietly, not meeting either of our gazes.

"Seriously, Miri?" Weasley looked almost angry now. "I have a boyfriend. I don't need yours. I'm not in love with him. I don't even like him, for that matter."

"Ooh," I said, my tone mocking now that I wasn't the one being scrutinized. I clutched at my chest. "That hurt, Rosie."

"I believe you," Amaryllis said, still not meeting Weasley's gaze. She got up, her left shoulder kind of raised, clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation. "I think I'm going to go now. See you guys." With that, she shouldered her bag and padded out the room.

There was a long silence after she left.

"So. Wanna make out?" I said, my tone taunting. I wanted her to cry. I really did. Screw all that 'never have a woman's tears on your conscience' shit. I wanted to make her squirm for being such a bitch. Weasley gave me a withering look.

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

"Ooh, that sounds good too! My room or yours?"

"I hate you. I really do."

"The feeling's mutual, love."

Weasley scaled her stairs. She paused at the top step and turned around. "I'm not in love with you, and I never will be."

"Never's a long time!" I called.

But all I got in response was a slammed door and silence.

Seething,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

Aggh I'm rusty, I'm sorry. I kind of just churned this out. This chapter was kind of just a lot of tenseness and not a lot of action, (sorry for that, too). I didn't get this beta'd so please let me know if you spot any mistakes.

ALSO: My good friend **Erra **and I are collaborating on a new Rose-centric/Albus-centric/RoseScorpius fic called _Hogwarts, Another History_. It's under a third account called **Erque**. Check it out!

Review if you can, please :)  
Till next update, Cheers!


	17. Friday, October 4

So hi. I know I'm a terrible, terrible updater. I've been absolutely swamped with schoolwork and the like and I finally had some free time this weekend. The only thing I can promise is that I absolutely **will **finish this fic, but updates won't be prompt. I'm sorry!

This chapter is dedicated to **blackteaplease **who left me a review a few months ago about reading this late into the night before a job interview. Hope all went well in the end.

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

I had thought about it and thought about it and thought about it and thought about it.

And as I was thinking, it dawned upon me this morning that Weasley just isn't very nice.

I mean _obviously_ she isn't very nice. I don't think that was ever disputed after the whole lets-see-how-many-birds-it-takes-to-gouge-Malfoy's-eyes-out incident.

But for some reason—and I couldn't explain my rationale even if I tried—I had thought that Weasley might have a soft core under her hard exterior. I mean, she _had_ to right? There's a reason she's not a Slytherin, and I had assumed that her gooey filling was what kept her out of the most prestigious house at Hogwarts.

But I guess not. She's just as cold as the rest of us dungeon-dwellers. The Sorting Hat is clearly just getting a bit old for its job.

I mulled over my new epiphany at breakfast, alone. Zabini was a small distance away, applying whatever little charm he possessed in an effort to woo Cecilia Vane. I found it really odd that he was going through all these lengths to find a girl all by himself. I mean honestly, if he was feeling lonely, I could have found a chick for him in a few minutes. Some girl to bag and shag, if you catch my drift.

And then, dear readers, was when I had my first heart attack of the day.

Zabini, you see, said something ostensibly funny—probably a line recycled from my repertoire— and Cecilia let out a bubbly giggle, which in itself was like seeing a basilisk blush. Then, lovely audience, _Zabini _did the unthinkable: hekissed Cecilia's _nose_.

I'll leave you with a few moments to process this obscene act.

I mean… her fucking _nose_!

Who does that? Forty-year-olds do that—to their daughters! Lorcan Scamander does that—and he wears a purity ring! You only do that to girls you want to restrict to the friend zone forever. He. Will. Never. Get. _Laid_.

My jaw went slack and half-chewed toast lolled about my tongue. Cecilia was pink in the cheeks and I was on the verge of marching up to Zabini and slapping him until _he_ was pink in the cheeks. Had he learned nothing from me in the last seven years?

Luckily for him, Amaryllis chose that moment to appear by my shoulder.

"Hi," she said distractedly. Her gaze lingered on the Gryffindor table where Potter and Penelope were sharing their breakfast—in er, more ways than one.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" I commented. Between that and Zabini's nasal action, I hardly had an appetite any more. I put my toast down.

"What is?" Amaryllis said, snapping out of her trance. She looked at me for the first time since she arrived at the Slytherin table.

"Potter and Penelope." I squinted at them. "Why on earth would anyone want to date Potter? He's so… eh. Mediocre." Amaryllis looked uncomfortable. I realized again that she was not only a Gryffindor, but one of his best friends. "Sorry, Miri. No offense."

"Why no offense?" Amaryllis responded in a high, constricted voice. "He can date whomever he wants, even if she's a manipulative bitch who's only stuffing her tongue down his throat because—"

"Relax," I laughed. "I only meant because you're his friend?"

"Oh," she said shortly. "Right."

But I knew there was something a little deeper than that. Was it jealousy? Could she perhaps sense that Potter and Penelope were going out on the basis of genuine feelings whereas I was, for the most part, only going out with her to get a reaction out of Weasley? Well, that was _partially_ still true. Amaryllis was a really great girl. She was sarcastic and attractive and fun to be around. I liked her a lot, and she liked me, but even _she_ had to realize that our relationship wasn't very romantic. She was probably funneling her resentment at the lack of spark in _our_ relationship into Potter and Penelope's spark-_laden_ relationship. I felt a little bad.

"Hey, Miri." I said, pulling her closer to me. "How would you like to go to Hogsmeade tonight?"

"Sneak out?" she asked, taking a bite of my abandoned toast.

"Mhmm."

"Sure," she said, not looking very excited about it.

Maybe I was wrong. I reassessed the situation. Why was she eyeing Potter like she wanted to jab a fork into his neck? Was she jealous of _him_? A realization fell over me like a blanket. Was Amaryllis lesbian? For _Penelope_?

Oh, score one for Scorpius! This was the ideal situation for so many reasons. First of all, when we inevitably break up, there won't be very many hard feelings. And second of all, this just attests to my supreme level of attractiveness. I mean, I bagged a _lesbian_. It almost transcends the whole lets-anger-Weasley situation.

Speaking of whom.

There was a profound lack of ginger at the Gryffindor table this morning.

"Where's Weasley?" Amaryllis furrowed her eyebrows looking, for the first time this morning, interested in our conversation.

"You know, I'm not quite sure."

I shrugged. She had probably overdosed on Arithmancy homework last night. She's probably hungover on numbers or whatever else it is that gets her endorphins pumping.

* * *

Weasley hadn't shown up to any of her classes that morning. And after lunch, she was still nowhere to be found. I was growing, despite myself, a little worried. I mean, there's a reason McGonagall appoints _two_ Heads. How am I supposed to handle a double load of midnight rounds if it so happens that she's dead in a ditch somewhere?

After dinner that evening, I trudged up to the dormitory. I entered the commons to find the lights all on. Weasley was sitting on the couch, a crumpled paper in her hand—that Arithmancy homework, no doubt.

"Late night partying with the textbooks?" I said drily. Weasley didn't so much as turn her head to acknowledge my presence or comment. I was relieved that she didn't die and leave me with twice the amount of responsibilities, but I was expecting a bit more reaction. I suppose she was still a bit bitter about the fiasco last night. "Whatever Weasley. I'm not lending you my Transfiguration notes."

I stomped up the stairs and was just about the chuck my bag on my bed when a heard a faint sob. I paused. Silence. And then a small choking sound.

What was that?

I poked my head out of my room. Weasley hadn't moved an inch, and her back was still turned towards me. Slowly, she leaned her neck against the back of the couch and under the rosy light of the chandelier, I could make out the traces of the scariest thing I had ever seen on a witch.

And that is when I had my second heart attack of the day.

Tears.

Her cheeks were shining under a thin veneer of _tears_.

Was she still upset about what happened a few nights ago? What went down was a little harsh, but it wasn't anything completely out of the ordinary for us. We argued all the time. This particular instance was certainly nothing to take a day off over.

"Weasley?" I said tentatively. I groaned to myself. I hated apologizing. I hated it. I would rather give up an appendage, any appendage (apart from the er, important one) than say sorry, _especially_ to Weasley. But there was something so _broken_ about her face. She looked like she was about to wither away, and the image of her looking so fragile was burning itself into my retinas. I shuffled down the stairs.

"Weasley, are you okay?" Slowly, her head turned to face me. I expected rage, fury, and anger in her gaze. But what I got was even more surprising.

Nothing.

Her eyes, I mean. They contained absolutely nothing. They were blank, expressionless. They didn't contain a single trace of emotion in them. The blue was flat, like someone had calmed every wave in the ocean. She looked so drained.

"I, er, Weasley?" Still, she didn't respond. I was growing worried again. She was practically catatonic. "I'm sorry about last night. That was really harsh of me and I… I take it back." Even though I did no such thing.

Still, nothing. Weasley squeezed her eyes shut and turned away from me. It was then that I noticed the crumpled paper in her hands again. I had assumed it was her Arithmancy homework, but from here it looked like it might be something else.

I inched closer to Weasley and delicately pulled the sheet from her weak grip. She didn't resist.

The paper was soft and wet, tears smudging the blue ink until it was hardly legible. I flattened it out and read:

_Rosie,_

_I don't know how to tell you this. Your father was doing a dark-wizard raid in Romania a few weeks ago with some colleagues. He was supposed to be back a few nights ago but he hasn't come home yet. The aurors say that he's missing. All his things are still at the campsite and there were a few signs of struggle. He left his wand behind. _

_Sweetheart, I don't want you to worry. Your father is a highly skilled and highly trained auror. He'll be okay, I promise. I'll be coming down to Hogwarts this weekend and we'll talk._

_Love,  
Mum_

I looked back at Weasley again. Her face was buried in her hands, and I could tell that she had begun to cry again.

And I had literally no clue what to say. I had never comforted a girl before—this was all so foreign to me. My general policy was: see tears, run. My instincts were already kicking in; I could feel my calf muscles tensing, itching to get out of here.

Oh and this had nothing to do with me. I could take my apology back.

Except, even _I_ wasn't that callous. I cleared my throat awkwardly.

"Weasley—"

"You don't have to stay here," Weasley interrupted, speaking for the first time since I arrived. Her voice was coarse and scratchy, as if she had just been gargling with sandpaper. My calves seemed to sense this and started twitching even faster. I swallowed my insensitivity.

"Have you eaten?" I asked, judging it easier to deal with the smaller issues first. Weasley seared me with a calculative gaze and said nothing. And just when I thought she had perhaps succumbed again to catatonia, she spoke.

"No. I'm not hungry." Her voice was still weak.

"That's not healthy," I said, rummaging through my bag. I pulled out a chocolate frog, and hit it with a mild enlarging spell. "Eat this."

She took it from me and munched for a few moments in silence.

"Why are you doing this?" I winced. That was something I didn't quite know the explanation to myself. Instead of answering, I responded with another question.

"When did you get this letter?"

"This morning. A little before breakfast." Weasley hungrily shoved some more chocolate into her mouth. "I've been here all day. It's just—," Weasley's voice cracked and she looked away again. "My dad is—"

Gently, I pulled Weasley's closer to me. Surprisingly, she didn't object. She nestled her head into my shoulder.

Neither of us said anything for a while, because _fuck_, it was awkward. I had completely gone stiff, and I could tell that she was hardly breathing. The rapidly enlarging spot a little over my sternum told me that she was still crying.

"Shh," I said after about five minutes of this silent weeping. "Your dad will be okay."

"How do you know that?" she whispered. She turned her head to look at me, and her eyes were wide and beseeching. "Promise me," she demanded.

"I… Weasley, you know I can't do that." I expected her to surrender to tears again, but she instead straightened. She lifted her head off my shoulder and I let out a breath that I didn't realize I was holding.

"My mum promised me." I was about to point out that I wasn't her mother when she spoke again. "My mum promised me, but I don't think she should have done that. There's no way she can do that… thank you, Malfoy."

"No…no worries?" I said, not quite sure how else to respond. Then, to my mixed horror and bewilderment, she fell on my shoulder again. She wasn't crying now, and this time, I could feel her breathing, rhythmic against my chest. All of a sudden, I was comfortable. My body relaxed, and seemed to melt. Her red curls smelled like sugar, and I reached my hand up to play with a few spirals. We didn't speak. I think our tolerance threshold had been reached. Any more than this and we would have had to kill each other or _something_, just to reinstate some normalcy. It was quiet. We stayed like this for a long time until I felt the hazy tendrils of sleep tugging at my eyelids.

"Oh and Malfoy?" Weasley murmured just as I was about to doze off.

"Yes, Weasley?"

"Apology accepted."

I Can't Believe I Apologized For No Reason,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

Reviews would be lovely!


	18. Saturday, October 5

Well, it's been a while. Since my last update, I've applied to and gotten into college, so the last year had been pretty stressful. It's nearly over, though, so enjoy this update!

Chapter dedicated to Cookie VanDeKamp for reviewing this story on her blog,_ Probably Why I'm Single Review_s on Blogspot.

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

Merlin's pants. Merlin's… _pants_.

…_Fuck_. Fuck fuck _fuck_. I literally cannot even process what just happened and why and where and _what is going on_?

I suppose it's best to just start from the very beginning.

This morning, I woke up on the sofa. It's actually downright scary how this was the least of my worries. The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was that I had a mouthful of red hair. In a very rapid procession, I noticed several more things: the entire right side of my body was numb, there was another creature sharing the couch with me, that creature was hairy and red, and fucking hell, that creature was Weasley's head!

I scrambled off the couch and spit out Weasley's curls. Weasley turned over on the couch and mumbled something incomprehensible, "Wahrshoahtscrps?"

I froze, torn between waking her up and fleeing to the solace of my own room. Weasley flopped over again: "Iwntossktu."

This sounded eerily like "I want to skin you". Needless to say, I was upstairs within a few seconds. A rigorous shower later (during which I'm ashamed to admit I had somehow convinced myself that Weasley's last sleep-addled mumble was actually "I want to suck it"—which of course resulted in an extra ten minutes spent under a cold stream), I pulled on a sweater and hurried down the stairs.

Weasley was sitting on the couch now, awake but confused. Her hair was frizzy and her robes were wrinkled. She looked up as soon as she saw heard my footsteps against the wooden floorboards.

"What happened last night?"

"I—"

"Why can't I remember anything? I wasn't drunk, was I?"

"Jus—"

"Did we sleep together?"

"Ac—"

"Good god, please tell me I didn't have sex with you."

"Weasley," I cut in sharply, sitting down across from her. I looked deeply into her blue eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you—"

"Look, I was pretty drunk. And when I got home last night, you threw yourself at me. I tried to stop you, I swear. But you can't possibly expect me to exercise any self-control when you're psyche is damaged with a fresh set of daddy issues and my Firewhiskey goggles are multiplying your numerical degree of attractiveness by a factor of ten."

Weasley made a choking sound. "We had—you and I—we—we _did_ it?" I nodded solemnly at her. "Merlin—I was—I was just joking about—"

"Yeah," I interrupted shortly, getting up. "I was too. We didn't have sex. Nothing happened last night. You fell asleep on the couch and I…" I paused. "I went to bed upstairs. Your mother is coming to see you tomorrow morning. There's a Hogsmeade trip today. Do what you want, but we're meeting at The Boar's Head around five to place an order for Butterbeer for the ball."

"My mother is…" and then the light suddenly fell from Weasley's eyes. Her gaze dropped to the crumpled parchment on the coffee table. She flattened it to the best of her ability and began to read it for what I'm sure was the ninetieth time, as if the light of a new day would have changed the words so her father was no longer missing and the odds of his survival were now more significant than wishful thinking. Her expression broke again.

I sighed and tugged the note from Weasley's slack fingers. "Look," I said. "There's no use worrying about it today. Your mother will tell you everything tomorrow. Just… just relax, okay?" I folded the parchment up into a square and sealed it before offering it to her again. She shook her head and pushed the note back to me before getting up and slowly making her way to her dormitory.

Weasley had looked much better at breakfast this morning. She seemed to be taking my advice and putting her worries at the back of her mind. I mean, I assume that was her motivation when she walked to the Gryffindor table, perched in Lorcan Scamander's lap and proceeded to vacuum his tongue with her mouth.

Gagging slightly, I turned to Zabini and Cecilia Vane. I'm not too sure how I feel, exactly, about this whole transitive effect thing that's making me have to spend all this time with Cecilia when I'm trying to spend time with Zabini. I mean, Cecilia Vane is okay enough. It's just that she's spent the last few years threatening to saw off various appendages of mine and I'm afraid that if things don't work out with Zabini, she'll make good at least one of her eighty-five or so previous promises.

"Don't you feel like we just had a Hogsmeade trip?" Zabini gurgled, trying with little avail to contain his toast while speaking.

I turned to him, my expression flat. "No."

"But we just went two weeks ag—oh. Oh, that's right. Sorry mate."

"Why?" Cecilia asked, sipping her coffee.

"Our good friend Scorpius was having a threesome with McGonagall and Rose Weasley."

I nearly spit out my breakfast. "Wha—_what_ are you talking about?"

Zabini laughed. "Isn't that how you described it before you left? Your detention?"

I didn't answer him. _Merlin_. I was not going to be able to keep up this charade.

* * *

Hogsmeade was crisp and nippy, the first real day of autumn after a lazy, hot summer. I had my Slytherin scarf knotted twice around my neck, but my cheeks were already growing ruddy with the wind.

Amaryllis and I walked up to the Three Broomsticks in a comfortable silence. Some distance behind us, Potter was strolling hand-in-hand and tongue-in-mouth with Penelope Thomas. Every few moments, we would hear a loud sound— sort of like a plunger being unsuctioned— followed by a throaty giggle.

"Al-_buuuuuus_," Penelope squealed. "St-_uh_-op!"

"How many syllables can you possibly stretch a four-letter-word for?" Amaryllis grumbled next to me, looking rather repulsed by what was going on behind us.

"Wanna find out how many syllables you can stretch my name for?" I asked slyly, tilting up one eyebrow in an effort to accurately portray myself as both charming and dignified.

Amaryllis went pink slightly, and with a rather exaggerated purr of seduction, pulled me into a nearby alleyway. There was a muffled sound of something falling behind us, but I paid it no heed. I might not be totally into Amaryllis, but I cannot think of a single excuse in the world to turn down some pro bono action from a pretty lady.

* * *

Several hours later, I bid adieu to Amaryllis and made my way to The Boar's Head.

This was about thirty minutes ago.

I know this because I've been in the Boars Head.

_For the last thirty minutes_.

Weasley is a lot of things. She's unbearably annoying and viciously acerbic and headstrong and stubborn and a general pain in the ass. But I have never ever known her to be late for anything in her life.

I mean, she was even born two weeks premature.

So yeah, her leaving me stranded for a half-hour in a shady bar was a little out of character. I slipped off my stool, finally, after another minute or so of scraping circles into the dust coating the bar top. Perhaps she had fallen somewhere and could not get up.

I slipped out of the Boar's Head and retraced my way back to the entrance of Hogsmeade. There were quite a few flashes the orange I was scouring the scenery for—the patchy fur of a ginger cat lurking the alleyways; the fat, sated sun setting over an idyllic Hogsmeade; and even several of Weasley's brethren scurrying in and out of the joke shop—just no flash of Rose Weasley herself. Heaving a sigh and figuring that there's a first time for everything, I made my way back to the Hog's Head to place the order myself.

I had just done so and gotten my left foot out the door when I heard it.

A strangled sound—a moan, was it? Two beats of silence. And then—the distinct sound of a whimper being held back behind a hand.

I walked slowly to the source.

I'll give you three guesses as to who I saw entangled behind the abandoned cape warehouse.

Was your guess McGonagall and Grawp? Because if so, you would have been extraordinarily close in terms of how much this sight made me want to projectile vomit.

A mess of limbs—Weasley's ginger hair matted and knotting against the bumpy red brick behind her head. Her body pressed so close to Scamander's that you could hardly push a needle into the gap between their bodies. Scamander's left hand under Weasley's shirt and his—_wait_.

His right hand pinning both of Weasley's wrists above her head.

Suddenly, something seemed to be terribly off about the whole scene.

Weasley's eyes were open, and wide with fear. Scamander wasn't kissing Weasley so much as he was forcing his mouth on hers—almost as if in an attempt to silence her. I stepped from behind the wall I was standing behind, and my eyes caught Weasley's. Her face was growing steadily redder with—what? Arousal? Anger? Fear?

She widened her eyes at me, and right then I realized that this entire affair unfolding before my eyes was not consensual.

What was going on? Was her own boyfriend attempting to rape her in a dingy back alleyway in Hogsmeade? The same boyfriend who has a silver purity ring surgically implanted into his own thumb?

And then, suddenly: the harsh metallic crackle of a zipper being forcefully ripped open; the sound of fabric straining, and then ripping open. I don't know how long I had been standing there slack-jawed, but all of a sudden, my blood in my hands turned to ice. A red haze began to gnaw the edges of my vision and before I could fully process what I was doing, I had closed the three strides between myself and Scamander, pulled him off of Weasley, and with a sickening _crack_, punched him straight in the nose.

He stumbled back. "Whadda fug?" he burbled through a fresh, wet stream of blood.

"What the—what the _hell_ is going on? Since when do you curse, Scamander? And where—god, where is your purity ring? You can't just take it off whenever you damn feel like it and try to molest your girlfriend! And what the hell is—"

I stopped short. Weasley had sunk to the ground, not seeming to know what to do with her limbs now that they were free. Her eyes were vacant as she looked up at me and then, registering my confusion, shook her head almost imperceptibly.

I looked back at the blond boy I had just punched. A sick feeling began to congeal at the base of my stomach. As if they were being revealed to me for this specific purpose, a series of objects seemed to light up: Scamander's eyes, dark navy with desire; a green-and -gray scarf, knotted twice around his neck; a long, thin scar across his forehead.

A scar from being hit in the head with a Bludger.

A Bludger—like the one Lysander was hit with during Quidditch tryouts a few weeks ago.

This was the wrong Scamander.

Weasley was being assaulted by the _wrong_ Scamander.

This is why I don't like families,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

Review if you can!


	19. Sunday, October 6

Hi y'all. It's been a few months, but that's far better than my previous record of a year, right? I come bearing more good news. At some point last year, Chapter 3 of this story got lost somehow and in it's place was a duplicate of Chapter 4. So, I've _finally_ rewritten it. It's up, so anyone wanting to fill in the hole in the timeline should check it out.

Chapter dedicated to **mspadfoots** for some wonderfully entertaining reviews.

* * *

Dear Man-Journal,

Scamander sloppily apparated away not too long after I punched him. All that was left next to a cold and shuddering Weasley was a small pool of his blood, half of a fingernail, and a set of black robes sitting wrinkled in an icy puddle.

I cleared my throat awkwardly and offered her my hand. "Are—are you okay?" Weasley shook her head ambiguously, but nonetheless grasped my upturned palm with her icy, shaking fingers and hoisted herself up.

I retrieved Weasley's robe from the puddle and quickly dried it before offering it to her again.

"Do…do you want to discuss it?" I asked, and then immediately mentally kicked myself. It sounded as if I was asking her to review the history of wrackspurt development in ancient Mongolian civilizations rather than her very recent and very traumatic incidence of sexual assault.

Weasley, however, didn't seem to notice. After a moment, she replied in a tired voice, "I don't know."

"I'm… are… are you going to do anything about it? Tell anyone?"

"I don't know." She shivered again.

"Weasley, do you want my robe? You look hypothermic."

"No thank you," she sniffed, her voice igniting the tiniest amount. "I'm a strong, _independent_ woman and I don't need you wrapping me with your veil of patriarchy." I raised my eyebrows at her, just as a well-timed gust of frigid wind ripped her curls from their perch at the nape of her neck.

"I really insist," I said, pulling my robes off. "I can cast a pretty strong self-warming spell. And if you die of frostbite, I'll have double the workload on _top_ of probably having to fill out a ton of paperwork. This is really a selfish thing I'm doing."

"But-" her voice trailed off in a feeble, half-hearted protest jauntily composed of "male-imposed dominance parading as chivalry" and "Malfoy, I really _couldn't_" and finally "Oh goddammit, _fine_".

"This is just nice thing a friend is doing for another friend," I said, wrapping my robes around her. "Think of me as Amaryllis Finnigan."

"We're not fr—" started Weasley, but then stopped short upon catching sight of my right hand. I'd been ignoring the ringing pain in it, but now that it was no longer hiding under the sleeve of my robe, I had to actively hold in my vomit.

I guess I had cashed in all my _sexy_ injuries during the Quidditch incident, because what I was looking at was decidedly _not_ sexy. To be honest, I wasn't even sure if it was even human.

My wrist was a swollen stump in the richest, most magnificent purple. My knuckles were lumpy and disfigured, hardly distinguishable from my fingers. It was little solace that more than half of my fingers stood straight because that meant the others were very clearly and very painfully dislocated.

I honestly didn't understand. I mean, I've never been in a fight before _per se_, but I _have_ had my albino peacocks attack the haughty Muggle children that live by the Manor before and _they_ never returned beakless and battered. Honestly, what was Scamander's jaw made of, Grawp's own erect genitalia?

"We should get you to Madame Pomfrey," Weasley said.

"_Me_? Weasley _you_—"

"No. I've decided I don't want to talk about it right now. I'm going to go to my dormitory. Please don't tell anyone anything until I can… figure some things out. Maybe talk to Lorcan."

"You want me to keep this a secret," I replied flatly. "What about not succumbing to the veil of patriarchy? I feel like this is a little important than not taking my bloody robe."

"It's—it's different. I just need you to _wait_."

"I suppose," I muttered, wincing as I shoved my swollen fist into my pocket.

"Oh and Malfoy? Thank you. I'm sick of you saving me, but… thank you. I guess we aren't even anymore, are we?" She moved, as if she were going to hug me, but then seemed to think better of it—or I had probably just imagined it, because why would Weasley _hug_ _me_?— and disappeared into the castle with a jaunty wave.

* * *

"Ugh, for fuck's sake," I groaned as I walked into the Slytherin changing room the next day. There was a gasp, a clattering sound, and a long string of muttered obscenities as I averted my eyes and turned around.

"You're early, Scorpius. Practice doesn't start for another hour and a half," Cecilia Vane said, her voice far raspier than I was comfortable with. I had to give it to her; she didn't look nearly as frazzled as my best mate did as he hurriedly pulled on a pair of pants.

"Do you two not have dormitories where you can do this?" I whined, turning around again now that Cecilia's undergarments were on and I was no longer in danger of losing an eye for ogling her svelte figure.

"We find the thrill of publicity titillating," Cecilia answered coolly, smiling at Phineas. Phineas grimaced in return, his face so red and sweaty –from my entrance, I hoped, and not from overexertion during any previous activity—that he looked like a veritable replacement for the Gryffindor mascot.

"I just wanted to fly a little before practice, but now you two have to find me a Healer that can do something about my burned retinas."

"Oh _please_," Cecelia said breezily. She grabbed Phineas by the hand and led him past me to the door. "I know the magazines you subscribe to. You've seen far worse."

"What happened to your hand?" Phineas asked suddenly, pointing to the bandages covering my right wrist, which was no longer quite as misshapen or swollen, but still retained a bright purple hue.

"Oh, nothing." I said quickly, shoving it into my robes. "I just… I walked into a tree."

"You walked into a tree," repeated Cecilia flatly, looking torn between wanting to tie me up and interrogate me some more and wanting to tie _Zabini_ up and do _god knows_ what.

"Don't worry about me. I can still hold a snitch." I hoisted myself up on a bench and pantomimed plucking a snitch from midair.

"Okay," said Cecilia after a pause. "But I really wouldn't lean against that particular bench if I were you." She gave me a small smirk and disappeared through the door.

"Bye Scor—" I heard Phineas say before his voice was suddenly and deliberately muffled.

I retched and scrambled off the bench I was on. I was genuinely happy that Phineas was able to get his own ass now, as scary as it was that the ass he had opted to get was Cecilia's.

I just, you know, didn't need to see live, visual proof of it.

And really— _how_ does Cecilia know what magazines I read?

* * *

Practice was going fine thus far.

I say this because Lysander Scamander was nowhere to be found. Sources say that he hadn't even been spotted back at the castle after the Hogsmeade debacle yesterday.

Of course, no one even knew there had _been_ a debacle because stupid Weasley was being stupid, and not taking any action to have him killed—or worse— expelled. I had been hoping to talk to her yesterday evening, but by the time I had wrenched myself from Madame Pomfrey's vice-like grip, Weasley had gone to bed. This morning, she out with her mother. It was almost as if she was avoiding me—for what reason, I had absolutely no clue. For once, I wasn't the villain in her life.

The villain in her life was Lysander Scamander.

Hell, it was even _Lorcan_ Scamander. If she had told him already like she said she would, then why hadn't he ripped his brother apart yet? What was he doing, sitting passively as his innocent girlfriend got felt up by his own genetic replica? Why hadn't he gotten expelled for twinicide?

I mean, it made me physically ill just thinking about his blond hair and pale arms wrapped around her body, as if it were _his_. His hands on her white, flat stomach. As if he _owned_ her.

His fingers snaking past the pleats of her gray skirt. Her eyes, both wet with panicked tears and bright blue with the most curdling anger I had ever seen in a girl. I was thirty feet in the air, and all of a sudden, I was shaking in anger. I tasted sickles in my mouth.

As if on cue, a small blond figure ambled onto the field.

"Scamander!" Cecilia Vane snapped, palming her Beater's bat and rapidly flying down the pitch. "You're over an hour late! Was the last match a joke to—"

She stopped suddenly. The rest of the team seemed to be descending from midair, so I joined them and landed delicately on the pitch's grassy lawn. Scamander had a mottled green bruise on his jaw, exactly where my fist had connected with it. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were bloodshot, and if we're all being perfectly honest, and he looked like he had physically been dragged by the ankle from the depths of Hades.

"What happened to your jaw?" snapped Cecilia. She threw a sharp, suspicious look to my bandaged hand

"Potions accident," mumbled Scamander, wincing at Cecilia's tone. "Also, I'm a little hungover, so if you wouldn't mind being a little quieter, I would really—"

"I don't know who told you it would be a good idea to spend the night with your bottle of Ogden's Finest the night before practice. I most certainly will _not_ be any quieter."

Scamander looked miserably between Cecilia and the garbage bin a few feet from the entrance of the pitch.

I could hardly contain my disgust. I was just about to kick off of the packed earth again when Cecilia beckoned me over. "Here," she grunted as she placed a heavy, lead ball in my arms.

"What is this for?"

"You two work on the side of the pitch with some beater's drills. Charm this to fly around and knock into Lysander. It'll do him good to build a little muscle."

Everyone else departed back into the crisp blue sky, leaving Scamander and I with a rich, awkward silence to handle.

"So," started Scamander, with a bit of a chuckle. "What happened to your hand?"

I stared at him.

"You're joking."

He chuckled again.

"Yeah, I am. Listen, mate—that was a nasty punch, but I totally forgive you."

"You forgive me." I repeated, deadpan.

"Yeah. I had been with Lorcan all day and he had just gone on and on about how _wonderful_ his girlfriend is, and after the third firewhiskey I was just about ready to hex my balls off. Weasley is a moderately hot piece of ass, yeah? And Lorcan won't even _try_ to sleep with her. What a fuckin' waste. I got out of there as soon as possible, and she happened to be right there. She was _asking_ for it, walking alone… wearing that sweater, you know?"

I gaped at him. "You are joking."

"What would I be joking about? Like you wouldn't do the same thing in my situation."

"You nearly _raped_ her."

Lysander guffawed. "_Nearly_ being the operative word here. And really—no, I didn't. She wanted it. I saw it in her eyes."

"Of course she didn't fucking want it. Nothing gives you the right to do that. Are you a _sociopath_?! Are you unable to keep it in your pants?" Lysander tilted his head to one side and furrowed his eyebrows slightly, as if I had asked him where he kept his licorice sugar quills, rather than where he kept his fucking _conscience_.

"Why are you getting so worked up about this? You would have done the same thing if you were as drunk as me and someone as hot as Weasley happened to walk by."

"No I _wouldn't_ have," I snapped. I was genuinely offended by this. I am an attractive dude, and the ladies do quite _literally_ ask for it. But I would never stoop so low as to force myself on a girl—especially a girl who, let us not forget, is dating my twin brother.

I sneered at him.

Lysander rolled his eyes. He mounted his broom gingerly, clearly still suffering from the retroactive effects of alcohol, and kicked off into the bruise-colored sunset. "Whatever, mate. Are you going to attack me with your balls or what?"

"Yeah, mate," I yelled back, and sent the gray ball hurtling straight for his pretty, nauseating face.

Disgusted and oddly satisfied,  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

I'm not super pleased with this chapter, but it is what it is and I couldn't figure out how to make it better. The next one, however, is one that I've been waiting to write for quite a while, so stay tuned?

Reviews are greatly appreciated!


	20. Friday, October 11

Dear Man-Journal,

One of my favorite things in the entire world is the castle at midnight. There's a certain sort of stillness to everything. No students in the hallways. Not a whisper of conversation. The only real movement coming from the gentle snores of the portraits and the puffs of dust that plume in the air when you step down a deserted hallway.

Needless to say, I love doing midnight rounds. It gives me a sense of solitude and inner peace that nothing has ever been able to replicate, save for perhaps this journal. Talking to people was tiresome. These days, all Phineas wanted to talk about was Cecilia. All mother wanted to talk about was summering in Vienna next June, and whenever I tried to talk to father, he brushed me off to go handle some crisis with the magazine's investors somewhere in Eastern Europe. I'd been relegated to solitude, and the best place I'd found to spend it was circling the fourth floor, as I took on double the amount of midnight rounds this past week, because Weasley had been MIA.

When I say Weasley's been MIA, I don't mean she's been shifty or sparse. I literally mean that she's gone. Her mother took her home for the week after coming to talk to her on Saturday. She left me brief note, devoid of any details. Every morning, her owl comes in with a neat parcel of her completed homework for the day, and every afternoon I return it with a copy of all my notes and her assignments for the evening.

By Wednesday, I was completely unable to bear not knowing what was going on, so sandwiched between theory notes on Animagus magic and a brief summary of the 1404 Goblin Massacre in Dublin, I left her a note: _Are you okay?_

On Thursday, pinned to the top of an essay on Rita Skeeter, one of the best-known unregistered Animagi in recent history, she left a response: _I'm fine._

I was left antsy with questions. Had she told her mother about Lysander? Was she filing charges against him? Had they found her father? Was she going to back any time soon? Could I bloody stop doing her rounds yet?

Knee-deep in these thoughts, I couldn't help but jolt when I heard a creak behind me. It was well past midnight. No one was supposed to be out this late, let alone out traipsing down the fourth floor. I turned, and found myself face-to-face with a tiny yellow canary. It fluttered by my nose before perching on the shoulder of Uric the Ugly's armor and letting out a curious chirp. I stared at the bird for two long moments before looking up.

"Weasley?"

There was a ruffling sound farther down the hall behind where I was standing. Three seconds later, a girl with a mess of curly red hair and a pale complexion that seemed to phosphoresce in the moonlight filtering through the windows emerged from the shadows. Despite the dark circles under her eyes and the blue veins clearly visible at her neck, she laughed somewhat warmly.

"How did you know it was me?"

"You've had these bloody birds circling our common room for the last two months, Weasley. Who else could it be?"

"That's fair enough," she responded. "You don't have to finish rounds for the night. I think I owe you a solid week."

I hesitated for a moment. "I think… I think I'd rather listen to you tell me where the hell you've been all week." Thus far tonight, Weasley had been pleasant to me, but I couldn't keep the accusatory note from creeping into my voice. Weasley heard it and looked down nervously.

"I really needed a break," she said. "I'm really sorry for not telling you earlier what was going on."

"You make it sound like you're going to tell me everything now," I said, my tone implying that she had very little choice in the matter.

"Well," Weasley sighed, sinking onto the nearest window ledge. The view overlooked the Forbidden Forest. In the distance, the windows of the gamekeeper's hut glowed orange, and a cloud of white smoke billowed from its chimney. Closer to us, the Giant Squid lifted a lazy tentacle from the lake, as if he were signaling Weasley to continue. "My father's been away on business in Romania—a dark wizard's raid or something, and he's missing. I'm sure they'll find him. Uncle Harry's just gone away and I was mostly home because mum needed me there. Hugo—my brother—he's trying to pretend this all doesn't affect him, but he's full of shit. He's way more upset than he's letting on."

I let out a breath and slid onto the ledge next to her. "I'm sorry, Weasley. That really… That sucks. I hope it works out."

Weasley shot me a sarcastic look. "You really are _terrible_ with sympathies. You just sounded like you were telling me to get better after a botched breast augmentation."

I glanced down at Weasley's chest. "Well I really didn't want to say anything, but now that you mention it, you really might want to talk to St. Mun—" I was cut off with Weasley swatting my arm, laughing.

"It's actually nice," she said after regaining her composure. "Everyone else is treating me like I'm some fragile little doll. I kind of just want to get going with life. I know it'll work out. I just wish everyone else had that same faith."

"What about." I cleared my throat. "What about Lysander? And Lorcan?"

Weasley's eyes darkened a little at my question and she looked away, out at the lake. "I spoke to Lorcan the other day."

"And?"

"He dumped me."

There was a very long pause.

"Excuse me?"

"Lorcan broke up with me."

"Let me just… let me understand this. Your boyfriend broke up with you because his twin tried to rape you."

"That is correct."

There was another pause.

"And can I ask… why?"

Weasley sighed. "Lysander got to him before I could. He had already told him that I threw myself at him in some back alleyway in Hogsmeade. When I told Lorcan, he made it sound like I was just trying to cover up cheating on him." Under my sleeves, I felt my fists curling by themselves. A bolt of pain shot through my right wrist, which still had a little recovery left to go after the incident last weekend.

"And you're okay with that."

"I think they're both bloody jackasses," Weasley said, rubbing her face and laughing tiredly. She slipped off the ledge we were sitting on and moved to the opposite side of the hallway. "I sort of expected it, though. I think Lorcan knew, deep down, what his brother did—or at least, that his brother was capable of doing that. But he didn't want to believe it. Girlfriends are for weeks, but brothers are forever, you know?"

"He's an idiot," I said, sliding off the ledge and walking towards where Weasley had sank on the floor. I kneeled in front of her. "What are you going to do about it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who are you going to tell? I'm sure McGonagall will expel him when she hears. And did you hear Puddlemere's been looking at him to play for them after graduation? His Quidditch future will absolutely be demolished after word about this gets out. No one wants publicity like that."

Weasley looked down into her lap, where she was playing with something. "I'm not sure," she whispered. She looked up, and her cheeks were flushed red. "I'm really scared. His mom is one of my mom's best friends and I really, really don't know if I can do this. You're the only one who knows—I'm fucking—I'm fucking sharing this secret with a Malfoy, of all people—and it has the potential to ruin his life and… what about my life? What if no one believes me?"

I sank down next to Weasley and let her rest her head on my shoulder. "I'll back you up, Weasley. I mean, Madame Pomfrey has medical records that'll align with me punching Lysander to defend you. The barkeeper at the Boar's Head can confirm that you missed our appointment that morning. And it is your word against his. They can't possibly believe that sleazeball over the Head Girl, can they?"

"You're right," she whispered, resting her head on my shoulder again. Her eyes returned to the thing she was playing with in her lap. I squinted at it for a few seconds, but it wasn't until the shiny brushed silver caught the moonlight that I realized what it was.

"Is that Scamander's _purity_ ring? Did you steal that from him?"

Weasley snorted. "Yeah, I did. But really, I think it's more of just… a _ring_."

I gaped at her for a moment. "Are you trying to tell me that Scamander is… _not..._?"

Weasley smirked. "Oh, he is definitely not."

"So you mean to say… you and him… you two…"

She nodded slowly, chuckling to herself. "Why the sudden interest in my sex life, Scorp?"

"Just amazed to find out that it exists is all," I said, matching her dry tone. "Next you'll be telling me that Nargles are real, too."

"I don't know what else you'd expect from two seventeen-year-olds at boarding school." She glanced to the side with an almost incredulous snort and rolled her eyes.

"Why did he pretend, then?"

"Well, he never actually said it was a purity ring. People just assumed, and he never corrected them. He said it was because it wasn't anyone else's business. In retrospect, I think he used it as a way to get girls."

"What girl on earth looks at a virgin and thinks '_hey, he looks like he'd be really great to sleep with?_'"

"Me, apparently." Weasley stood up with a dramatically forlorn look and leaned against the wall. "Not everyone goes for the perpetually horny sex machine, you know," she gestured vaguely to me.

"Hey." I stood up. "Everyone is perpetually horny. I just choose to own it." I realized though, that Weasley was grinning rather wickedly.

"Hey Malfoy." Weasley looked down and straightened her skirt, before taking a large step towards me. "Why is it that you're sometimes so nice to me, and the second I start to relax around you, you turn around and become the Wizarding World's greatest asshole?"

"Maybe because I _am_ the Wizarding World's greatest asshole."

"I don't believe that." Weasley took another step to me, this one much smaller. She reached over and brushed lint off of my shoulder.

"You… excuse me?"

"I think you pretend." Suddenly, Weasley was very close to me. Her hands were on my tie, fingering the silk knot by my collar.

"Why would I pretend to be horrible?" I countered, but I was abruptly very nervous. As one of Weasley's hands continued to loosen the knot, the other traveled up my throat.

"Why are you so nervous?" she asked, still grinning. She dipped her fingers into the notch next to my jugular. I could feel my pulse, hot and fast, pressing against her skin. I swallowed, without realizing what I was doing, and Weasley's grin widened as she felt my Adam's apple travel up and down. I was dating her best friend, and I literally had no clue what she could be trying, here, with one hand undressing me and the other doing Merlin know what.

"I…"

"_Oh my god_." It took no more that one-half of one millisecond for Weasley and I to spring apart as if we had each been hit with a stinging hex. But as I looked around, there seemed to be no one around us. I looked at Weasley, and she pointed down the hallway we were in.

"I think someone's in a classroom," she hissed, drawing her wand. There was a clatter of wood against stone, a giggle, and a hushing sound.

I glanced at her again, and together we slunk down the hallway, towards the noise. The movement seemed to be coming from the farthest room on the right.

"Okay," I said. Once we had stopped outside. From the tiny window, all I could see was the silhouette of two figures, obviously the middle of a shag. "Well. This is going to be pleasant."

Weasley was squinting into the window, a perplexed look on her face. "Open the door."

I don't recall the exact order of the next few events but I know they included: the door opening; the light flooding in; two surprised yelps; the clattering of four wands as they fell to the floor; a very long stream of curses; "Albus?" Weasley saying in a choked voice; and finally, one pair of round, celery-green eyes widening as they registered their owner's boyfriend and best friend walking in on her in the middle of a midnight romp with the wrong guy.

"Rose. Scorpius. I can explain," she said, as Albus hastily pulled some clothing on.

"Forget it, Miri," I said. I turned around, walked out of the room, down the hallway, and (for all dramatic purposes) out of her life.

Since when do I get cheated on?  
Scorpius Malfoy

* * *

Eek so I apologize for the delay. I wrote this all last night (which might explain why I'm not too happy with this chapter) as I was procrastinating about 500 pages of reading and a paper, which just goes to show you that there is no motivator more powerful than avoidance of something else. Anyway, reviews are appreciated!


End file.
